


No More Wrongs to Write

by In_agony_and_ecstasy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Coming Out, Depression, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jean is a writer, M/M, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Content, Suicidal Thoughts, also an artist, coming of age story, demi-sexual!mikasa, eren is lonely, freinds to lovers, implied arumika, they are both in the closet, trans!Armin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 13:19:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 96,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3383003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_agony_and_ecstasy/pseuds/In_agony_and_ecstasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eren lives in a town he despises, with few friends, and fewer life goals. He doesn't feel as though there is anywhere he belongs. </p><p>Jean has just moved in next door to Eren. At school, Jean seems like the most popular guy around, and Eren is convinced Jean will never spare him a second glance. Eren's not sure that's what he wants anyway, since he can't come out. </p><p>But Eren can't ignore Jean once he witnesses something disturbing happening in the Kirstein house. After that, all Eren wants to do in the world is be there for Jean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Paper Airplanes

**Author's Note:**

> None of the descriptions of abuse in this fic (whether it be self-harm or otherwise) will be graphic, but they will be mentioned frequently, so if this is upsetting to you I wouldn't read it. 
> 
> There are a few homophobic slurs too, just so you know. 
> 
> for anyone else who's still interested, thank you!

The first time I ever saw Jean Kirstein, I was at school. He was new, and so therefore automatically the most important person on the planet for at least a week. That was what happened in small towns like Superior. 

When the only place to hang out after dark was the three burnt out lampposts outside of the only Walmart for miles, and the only events going on were either the races or the fair that came through (both only happening during the summer, leaving the rest of the year virtually barren), and the only people you could stand were the only four people in the town that weren’t born and raised there like their parents and their parents’ parents and their parents’ grandparents…

I would wager that Jean Kirstein was actually more popular to us in that moment than when the fucking president drove through our town two years ago, and that was only because he was going to a different town, because believe me, this town didn’t count as a town. It was kind of like a nickel, ya’ know. A nickel was worth five cents, but it cost eleven cents to make it or something like that? Why bother, right? That was Superior.

Anyway, I saw him at school. He had already warmed up to his popularity. Within days, he had made more friends than I had made acquaintances in my entire life. I never saw him alone. And when I did see him, he was always the focal point of whatever was happening.

But it wasn’t like it mattered. He was a freshmen, and I was a sophomore, so the novelty of a new person was already watered-down. 

He didn’t give a shit if I liked him anyway, or if I thought his weird, blond undercut looked feather soft, or that his Nebraskan farmer’s tan was sexy as hell, or that if you caught him speaking under his breath, at just the right time in the morning during math, with just the right dose of aggravation tightening his fists, you could hear some kind of a northern-southern, accent baby and – Oh man.

Oh man, oh man, oh man.

Okay, so my excitement wasn’t watered-down. It had been mixed in with gasoline and set on fire.

But I pretended it was watered-down, because no one knew about me, and a male sophomore had no reason to be enthralled by a male freshmen. 

Of course, I had forgotten to act like I wasn’t enthralled. 

The first time I saw Jean Kirstein, I had grinned so dopily and so idiotically at him, that he looked at me and he said, “What the fuck are you lookin’ at, faggot?”

And oh, here we go.

…

The second time I saw Jean Kirstein, was when I looked out my bedroom window and thought, huh, my neighbors were moving out.

No. My neighbors were already gone, and I had cared so little that I hadn’t noticed them carrying their fucking furniture out of their house four months ago, and hadn’t noticed that there weren’t any cars in their driveway, and their dog wasn’t on a leash outside anymore, and – oh yeah, there weren’t any fucking people around?

Like, what the hell?

Not my best day, man.

Anyway, so, that meant that the people carrying boxes of shit around in my neighbors’ yard – my old neighbors’ yard – were moving in and becoming my new neighbors. The moving trucks had been there for three days, my mom had said. 

Let me get this straight.

 _No one_ moved to fucking Superior, Wisconsin. There was nothing here, except one highway with a speed limit of twenty five, going right through it. Yeah, I was fucking serious. Twenty. Five. Two, then a five. 

That way, the people that arrived could creep along the highway and look out their windows at all the decrepit houses and bars, kind of like we were zoo animals, before exiting Superior, and returning to Not-Superior, the best place on Earth.

So, these people that shouldn’t fucking be here, were the Kirsteins. It couldn’t be anyone else. 

Yup. This was what my luck was like on an everyday basis, although this was a pretty exceptional moment to put on my resume of all my unlucky experience. 

Jean jumped out of their SUV carrying his backpack and a box of something as I watched out my window. He was wearing a tank top. Fucking idiot. He had to be freezing. Nebraska’s winter was the diet version of Wisconsin’s winter. 

He wouldn’t last through September in tank tops.

Either that, or he would, and then _I_ wouldn’t fucking last, because - holy hell. 

God, what were you thinking? How dare you. I want you to think about what you’ve done. 

…

The third time I saw Jean Kirstein I was being the second biggest piece of shit on Earth. And I didn’t mean Jean was the first. No, that medal belonged to someone else, but I’d get to that in a bit. 

As of right then, it was at least three weeks later, maybe more. I had gone out of my way to not fucking look at him, believe you me. Not in math class, not in the halls, not even when I could hear him yelling at someone outside. In fact, I didn’t even listen to what was being said. There were reasons for that last one. I didn’t want anyone hearing the shit I said to my family, and I wouldn’t wish that sort of shit on my worst enemy.

My worst enemy at that point in time didn’t have a family though.

Six packs generally didn’t, I didn’t think, have families.

Unless, maybe each individual ab considered the other abs family, I didn’t know.

The point was, I was fucking peeping over the edge of my fucking window at _his_ window. 

Oh yeah, I was that guy. But he wasn’t fucking naked or jerking off or anything, okay? For Christ’s sake he was just shirtless, it wasn’t that bad. He was laying on his bed, reading something. I wouldn’t have gambled a dime that he was the type of person to read, but hey, we all had our secrets.

Now, God, I fucking meant what I said. If you didn’t fucking want me getting turned on by men, you shouldn’t have put assholes like him on Earth, you hear me? Course you do, but do you give a shit? 

So, Jean’s abs. They uh, they… existed. 

That about summed that up.

But, what I saw next I should have not seen even more than I should have not seen Jean shirtless. It was the first biggest piece of shit on Earth. 

His dad barged into his room. Or I assumed it was his dad, anyway.

Jean stood up to face his dad. There was yelling. A lot of yelling, the yelling I normally tuned out. His dad swung his arms. He tipped over Jean’s computer chair, he tipped over Jean’s textbooks, and then he tipped over Jean.

Just as I ducked below my window so I wouldn’t be seen, I heard a scream.

A real scream. Not like your-friend-got-drunk-and-tripped scream, not like you’re-fucking-someone-into-the-headboard scream, not even a your-mom-caught-you-fucking-someone-into-the-headboard scream.

A real scream, and it crawled under my skin through my ears. I felt that scream’s fingers on my throat. For a second, I knew exactly what the scariest feeling there ever was felt like, and I preferred death. 

Fuck you, God. 

…

The fourth time I saw Jean Kirstein, he was sitting on his roof, just outside of his window. He was shirtless. It was November. The snow made his skin glitter. The wind ruffled his hair. 

I didn’t look at his abs anymore. 

I looked at the purple and blue blotches that tainted his fair skin. They were all over the place. His shoulders, his face, his chest, his stomach…Everywhere except his arms and neck.

He smoked a cigarette, and then he put the cigarette out on his arm.

…

The next time I saw him – and I thought I lost track after this, of when I saw him and how many times – he was sitting on his roof again. He was out there, writing in a tiny notebook. He wasn’t shirtless, but all he wore was a sweatshirt and jeans. Before going out on the roof, he’d used a broom to brush off all the snow. Still, some snow had to have melted and seeped through his jeans. His knuckles and cheeks were pink as he wrote. His fingers were chapped, so were his lips. The entire outside world was black and gray, because it was night, and it was winter, and everything was dead.

Except his eyes. They were hazel, and they were two little candles flickering back and forth as he wrote in the journal.  


Without thinking – probably one of my greatest talents, to be honest – I reached for my backpack and I pulled out a notebook.

I ripped out a piece of lined, notebook paper and grabbed a pen.

I wrote:

 

Jean  
Sucks about your dad. Everything sucks. I probably do too. But you can talk to me if you want.  
– Eren 

 

Then, I folded it all up into a paper airplane. I opened my window, and the sides of it scraped against the window paneling as I did. His head perked up, and as soon as he saw me, his whole body stiffened like he’d been electrocuted. I’d never seen an innocent human being look that fucking guilty. He went to stand, but because it was icy and shitty outside, he couldn’t do it quickly.

“Wait!” I yelled, and then I flicked the paper airplane his way. It skidded to a halt on his roof.

His eyes met mine.

“What the fuck is it?” he asked.

“It’s a paper airplane,” I replied. “Obviously.”

“No, I mean why the fuck are you throwing paper airplanes at me?”

“Just open it.”

He clenched his teeth, but given that we were ten or so feet apart, he did nothing. He eased himself back down, and snatched the paper airplane up.

“What does it say?” he asked.

“You can read, can’t you?” I replied.

“Fuck you,” he said. 

I thought about replying “okay,” ‘cause I couldn’t have been more down to get fucked by him if I was already so far down I was at the bottom. 

If you know what I mean. 

Okay, seriously though, I didn’t fucking say that. I had an ounce of self-control I’d been saving for a rainy day, and I used it then. This human being might actually fucking need me, and considering he’d already called me a faggot once, I thought I better not radiate any homo vibes his way.

“Just read it,” I said, “You can pretend it never happened. If you want.”

He stared for a moment longer, and shook his head. He crumpled up the airplane in front of my face, but he didn’t throw it off the roof. He tucked it into his pocket. Then he disappeared through his window. 

The next morning, there was a paper airplane sitting on the roof outside my window. 

I unfolded it. He had written: 

 

Eren,  
Mind your own damn business, what the fuck is wrong with you?  
Yours truly,  
Jean

 

I grinned. That shithead. He couldn’t fool me. I was the master of making other people think I hated them when I didn’t. I’d been doing it with my parents for years.

He wouldn’t have bothered to reply if he truly didn’t want to talk to me. 

That idiot.

I fist-pumped the air and damn near nose-dived into my bed. 

Thank you. Not you, God, you didn’t do anything. But Jean, thank you, thank you, thank you for giving me a chance. 

…

November 2, 2014 

My ass is freezing. I’m on my roof. My fucking roof! Can’t even write in my bedroom anymore. Can’t even THINK in my bedroom anymore. So much Goddamn yelling.

Sometimes I wonder why I bother with this bullshit. No one will ever read this, and really I don’t want anyone to. 

If you’re reading this, whoever you are, fuck off and run before I find you.

Anyway, dad went on a bender a few days ago. Three awesome days passed without him, but then he came back and punished everyone for not fucking missing him. I think he left because he found my shit under my bed.

Mom’s got a black eye. I got a black and blue everything. My body looks like space, without the stars. Just ugly and murky. It’s getting harder to hide.  


And it’s only going to get worse if 

 

November 3, 2014

The fucking next door neighbor knows about dad. What the hell. 

Last night when I was freezing my ass to the roof of my house, this kid fucking opens his window and throws a paper airplane at me filled with a note. What a fucking loser. 

He wants to talk to me. Not like everyone at school wants to talk to me. He wants to talk to me about my problems. He doesn’t even know me! And he couldn’t handle it anyway. He isn’t rich or anything, but I bet his parents feed him every day. I bet his parents get along. I bet he’s never even been spanked. 

Eren Jaeger is the last person in the world who would ever understand MY problems. 

Whatever. I’m not going to talk to him anyway. I wish he hadn’t seen. Or heard, or whatever it was that tipped him off. I don’t know if he’s going to tell anybody, but if he does I’ll fucking kill him. He probably will though. He’s always staring at me. And I…I called him a faggot the first day I saw him. But that’s just what I had to do. He…he’s just…I wish his window wasn’t right across from mine. He keeps his blinds closed a lot though, so I guess that’s good.

He’ll probably tell everybody. I don’t want to move again. No matter how awful this place is, nobody here knows. No one except him.

 

(Later, like sometime after school) 

 

He didn’t tell anybody. He could have and he didn’t. I’m not sure what to think of that. 

God, I keep looking out my window for paper airplanes. How pathetic is that?


	2. Perfect on Paper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter Eren puts his foot in his mouth, Jean pretends to suck at math, and Jean and Eren are big dweebs together.

November 20, 2014

No more paper airplanes have come. I’ve checked every day, more than once a day.  
I’m not sure what makes me feel the shittiest. That he hasn’t sent anymore, or that I keep waiting for it. You know there’s something wrong with you if the only reason you look forward to waking up is because there might be a paper fucking airplane on your roof.

It’s so sad. This is the type of thing I would make fun of someone else for. 

It gets worse too. Whenever I have time to draw…I start drawing one thing. I swear, it starts out as something completely different. But it turns into him. I just

I guess I just see him all the time now. He’s never NOT there. 

I fucking suck at drawing, but I still do it. That’s pretty sad too. 

I swear I don’t know what I’ll do if anyone ever finds this notebook. I refuse to call it a diary. I’m contemplating setting it on fire, but…now that he hasn’t tried to talk to me again, this paper is all I have. 

I’m going to stop writing now, because I’m starting to fucking hate myself. I’m going to fucking bed. 

…

My mom had finally noticed Jean. I didn’t mean the Kirsteins. My mom had noticed them right away. I had to talk her out of going over there to introduce herself. Something about that just didn’t sit right in my gut. Or maybe I was just embarrassed, because I couldn’t imagine what Jean would think of my parents.

They were…well, on paper they were good people. How was that? My parents weren’t just good on paper, they were _fantastic_ on paper. They were a middle class white couple that had adopted two brown children. 

If this wasn’t enough, well, it would help to know that my parents had adopted Mikasa when she was ten. When she came here…I was too young to be told the details apparently, but she came from somewhere fucked up. She came from a house like Jean’s, only worse and I never had the courage to ask her what had happened. 

My mom taught sign language at an elementary school and my dad was a dentist. Both of them donated to charities, both of them went to church, and both of them were in the PTA until I was like twelve or something. 

That probably wasn’t even like all the shit they could put on their Heaven Application, but whatever the list was too long to name it all. 

Anyway, good people, right?

You would fucking think.

But that was on paper, and here was what it was like if it was in a reality TV show. 

It started with my mom talking to Mikasa. I was standing in the stairwell, out of sight, waiting for an opportunity to sneak into the kitchen and get food. I had to pick my moment carefully or I risked being interrogated by mom about something. 

My mom was sitting on the floor folding laundry with Mikasa while they watched something on TV. I imagined a camera man hovering behind me and a TV screen flicking between me, my mom and sister, and the kitchen. 

“Saw the Kirsteins’ boy today,” my mom said. Her voice was light. My mom always sounded like a bird chirping. She also always sounded like she had rehearsed everything she ever said throughout the entire day from a script, before she even left her bedroom in the morning. Only I never got my script to respond to her. 

“And?” Mikasa said. She’d probably already seen him at school, if not around his house. She hadn’t said anything to me about him. She was the only person in the entire school that wasn’t absolutely buzzing about the new kid when he showed up. She probably wasn’t even pretending to be uninterested. Lucky her. 

“He’s a cute boy,” my mom said. Gross. Why did moms always think they could say shit like that? 

“And?” Mikasa asked. I smiled. If I could count on my sister for anything, I could count on her to not take the fucking bait. 

“Well…what do you think?” my mom asked. “You know, the Kirsteins seem so nice. I’m sure he’s a good kid.”

“Haven’t talked to him,” Mikasa said. 

“Do you think he’s cute?” 

I could practically hear Mikasa’s internal groan, or maybe that was mine. She’d never had a boyfriend. In fact, I couldn’t recall a time she’d ever wanted a boyfriend, or even had a crush on anyone. Maybe she just didn’t tell me that kind of shit. I certainly didn’t tell her…but maybe I would if I ever liked a girl. I guessed I’d never know. 

“Sure,” Mikasa said. She was probably clenching her teeth right now.

I started tapping my feet on the stairs. I bit my lip. Part of me thought I should run upstairs now, and save myself. 

“You know, Mikasa, if I didn’t know better, I’d start to wonder about you,” my mom said. 

My head jerked up so fast I could have fucking injured myself. Holy fucking shit. No way. No fucking way. Did my mom seriously just? 

I almost laughed. My chest felt like it had been filled with helium and my hands were shaking. 

I’d been waiting for the day one of my parents brought up the fact that I had never had a girlfriend for as long as I’d been shaving. Almost on a regular basis, I looked myself up and down in the mirror, and gave myself the here’s-why-I-don’t-have-a-girlfriend speech, so that I could be ready for the ambush that would one day inevitably come.

My here’s-why-I-don’t-have-a-girlfriend speech went something like this: 

I didn’t have a girlfriend because I was focusing on school. 

I didn’t have a girlfriend because I was holding out for one specific girl that was already in a relationship.

I didn’t have a girlfriend because all the girls in my school were out of my league.

I didn’t have a girlfriend because etc.

I had never imagined my parents would even consider that Mikasa could be gay. I hadn’t considered it either, I guessed, and that thought sort of made me want to smack myself. 

I stood up from the stair I was sitting on and crept down to the bottom stair. They were silent, and I imagined that my mom was about to blow up like a balloon until she popped, if Mikasa didn’t deny the subtle accusation. 

“Huh?” she asked, as she set aside a short stack of her own clothing. God bless you, Mikasa. 

I peeked around the wall divider a little further to get a better look at them. Mikasa had her hood up, and what little I could see of her face was veiled by silky, black hair. I knew she wouldn’t see me, and my mom was looking her direction anyway. She was probably way too distracted by Mikasa’s potential gayness. I’d have to create a small explosion to get her attention now. 

“I’m just saying,” my mom said. She turned her head away from Mikasa, probably so Mikasa couldn’t see the fucking fear in her eyes. But Mikasa could smell that sort of thing, so my mom would be out of luck.

My mom’s head turned just enough, as she reached into the basket of clothes for a sweatshirt to fold. I got a glimpse of her fake smile and a forced shrug that gave away how hard she was trying to act casual for the imaginary camera crew. “You’re a pretty girl. I know there are boys that like you, there have to be.”

Oh, there were. It was exhausting keeping track of them all. 

“They think they like me,” Mikasa said, “But they don’t.”

“Oh, honey! Don’t say that about yourself.” Oh God, I was embarrassed _for_ my mom. How did anyone become that oblivious? How was it physically possible to live in the same house as someone and know so little about them?

“Say what about myself?” she asked. Mikasa had forgotten her lines. 

“You shouldn’t be so insecure,” my mom said, “There’s probably a few boys in your classes who like you right now, they just don’t know how to tell you.”

But they did tell her, all the fucking time. They told me too. Every once in a while one of them would come up and ask me if it was cool if he dated her, as if it was up to me. 

I didn’t even want to think about the ones that didn’t have the courage to talk to her. 

“I’m not insecure. Who said anything about being insecure?” she snapped. I laughed, and stifled it in the sleeve of my hoodie. Apparently you did, Mikasa, mom said so.

They were quiet for a few awkward seconds, nothing but the sound of clothing rustling and the low murmer of whatever sitcom was on TV.

Mikasa was waiting for a response she wouldn’t get. My mom didn’t usually listen to anything she said, but this time she didn’t even react to her. Mikasa had improvised her line and my mom was still reciting hers as scripted. I wondered if my mom would even notice if Mikasa left the room.

“All I’m saying is, it’s normal for a girl your age to want to date, and you’re old enough now. Your father and I are so proud of your grades, and how well you do in basketball and volley ball and everything, but really you’re old enough now. You deserve it.”

“I deserve _what_ exactly?” Mikasa had turned her head, just the slightest. Her already narrow, gray eyes thinned to slits.

I imagined the figurative television flicking to a tiny room with Mikasa being interviewed by whatever poor sap got stuck filming the Jaeger house. I guessed that Mikasa would be telling the interviewer right now about how badly she wanted to pack her shit, leave the house, and never return to Superior.

Take me with you, I thought. 

“You deserve to date, silly,” my mom said, interrupting my fantasies. “I mean you’re seventeen now. If you don’t get a boyfriend soon the neighbors will start to talk.” She giggled afterward, like it was a joke. Maybe to her it even was, but I wasn’t fucking laughing and it wasn’t fucking funny. Whether she meant for it to be a joke or not, she also fucking meant it. And my mom’s perfect-on-paper-world would fall apart if the neighbors had something to talk about. 

That was all I needed to hear, but because it was me, and because I had done something awful in a past life probably, there was more. 

Trying to peer around the corner to get a better look, I had tripped. 

“Eren?” My mom asked, as I stepped into my living room, pretending that making a noise hadn’t been an accident. “Eren what do you think of the neighbor boy?”

I froze mid-step. Then I said the wrong thing. Foolishly, because I hadn’t realized what my mom was asking. Although I feared it, I wanted my mom to realize I was gay, so badly. More than anything I wanted her to accept this as if it were normal, so badly. Because of this, I had heard what I wanted to hear for once, and not what I needed to hear to keep my secret safe.

I responded to the question I wanted to hear. “Yeah, he’s attractive. A little too angry all the time to use the word ‘cute’ though, I think.”

Mikasa didn’t react. She blinked a few times.

But my mom, – Oh God, my mom – her whole body went rigid like she’d been stabbed. Then her eyes widened. I imagined cameras zooming in on her expression, so they could capture in high-definition my mom breaking out into a sweat, my mom’s face turning red, my mom’s hands stuck in the air, holding a pair of sweatpants, and shaking…

Cue commercial break, I thought. This was it. This was the big shitfest. This was the last day I’d spend in my house. My heart was thudding so hard it could burst, but whether it was from fear, or the exciting thought of leaving my house forever…I didn’t know. 

I snapped out of it though, sooner than my mom did and sooner than the commercial break ended. I remembered to fucking cover my tracks. 

“Relax, mom,” I said, throwing my hands in the air like I was being held at gunpoint, “I was kidding.”

My mom deflated. Her cheeks puffed out and her face returned to its normal color. She rolled her hazel eyes and shook her head. She pulled out a few shirts from the basket in front of Mikasa and her, and began folding one of them. “Don’t be a smart ass, Eren. Tell me, what do you think of him? Do you think – uh…think you two boys could get along?”

And just when I thought I couldn’t be more embarrassed, couldn’t feel more uncomfortable, and couldn’t feel more like a house pet…my mom brought this shit up.

See, my mom and dad both thought there was something wrong with me, but they didn’t have the balls to just say it to my face. They didn’t have the balls to ask, “Why the fuck don’t you have any friends, Eren?”

So they skirted around the subject as if I was a five-year-old that could be fooled that easily.

They asked questions like:

Why don’t you join any extra-curriculars this year? You know, like your sister?

Why don’t you go to that party your sister is going to?

Why don’t you car-pool with your sister and some of her friends?

Why don’t you and your sister do etc.? 

The formula was essentially “why don’t you…” plus “Mikasa somewhere in there” plus “a suggestion that really meant ‘get some fucking friends, you loner’”. Oh, and a question mark, because they were pretending I had some say in it and they weren’t pressuring me at all. 

“Eren?” my mom asked, as she folded one of her sweaters. Mikasa’s head was tipped downward. I couldn’t see her expression. She was probably just relieved the attention had been pulled away from her. You’re welcome, I thought, but like…sarcastically. 

“Huh?” I replied, “Oh. Uh…yeah, he seems cool. I’ve talked to him a couple of times.”

He called me a faggot and I saw his dad beat him up so I guess you could say things were getting pretty serious. 

“Really?” my mom squealed, “That’s great, honey!”

“Yeah, sure,” I replied, clenching my jaw and B-lining for the kitchen. They fucking wondered why I hid in my room all day, Jesus. Maybe it was because I had something to fucking hide from.

…

Jean was out on his roof again, writing and smoking a cigarette. He couldn’t see me laying on my bed looking out my window at him because my light was off. I didn’t have an ounce of shame anymore about doing it either. I watched him all of the time. Not like…not like when he was changing or anything. If he started undressing I had the good decency to look away, although Goddamn, it wasn’t easy. I figured as long as I wasn’t being a pervert, it didn’t really harm anything. 

I wondered what he wrote about. I wondered why he had to go out on the roof to write. Maybe it was because he had to smoke out there, but like, he was out there whether he was smoking or not.

Mostly, I wondered if he owned a coat. He never wore one while he was on the roof, but maybe he left it downstairs. That was what I kept telling myself, anyway. It was easier to think Jean thought it was cool to not wear a coat than it was to think he didn’t own one.

It was like four degrees outside, for fuck’s sake. 

I wanted to throw another airplane at him. I had wanted to for a while, actually. But he had told me to mind my own damn business, assuming that I wouldn’t, and well…

I wanted to prove him wrong. I also didn’t want him to act all pissed off and annoyed with me again if I did it. Next time he talked to me – if he talked to me – I wanted him to want to. The problem was he was doing the exact same thing. He wanted me to contact him again. That little shit could wait as long as he wanted to, but I wouldn’t fucking do it. I wouldn’t give in first. 

I watched him until he closed his journal and put out his cigarette. He didn’t put it out on his arm this time. He put it out on one of the roof shingles and threw the butt in the gutter. Then he climbed back into his bedroom. 

There was always a pinch in my chest whenever he climbed back through that window. It always felt personal, like he was doing it just to reject me. But he wasn’t, I knew. He wasn’t even thinking about me. 

I stood up off my bed, stripped to my boxers, and then crawled underneath my covers. I set my alarm for the morning and went to sleep. 

Okay, so, I didn’t exactly fall asleep. And normally, I wasn’t going to lie, there was other business that needed attending to about this time of night. But I wasn’t in the mood. 

Tonight, I just stared at my ceiling. I had forgotten to close my blinds, and the light from Jean’s bedroom illuminated a runway on my ceiling. I stared at it, wondering what he must do every night before bed. What were his routines, what did he think about, what kind of a sleeper was he, and so on. 

Did he have trouble sleeping? 

I never did before I met him. But lately whenever I tried to sleep I buried myself alive in my own thoughts. 

I just kept thinking, and thinking, and thinking some more. About everything, but mostly about him. 

…

In the morning, there was an airplane on my roof.

He had written:

Eren,  
You win, asshole.  
Yours truly,  
Jean

I grinned like it was picture day for about ten minutes staring at his stupid, adorable, chicken-scratch. 

I had won, but more importantly he was talking to me and he wasn’t denying that he wanted to talk to me either. I laughed, and smiled, and I blushed like a moron.

Even though I was already running late for school, I pulled my math notebook out of my backpack and tore out a piece of paper.

I wrote:

Jean,  
I fucking knew you’d cave. Throw something at my window when you get this. I’ll open it.  
– Eren

I folded it up into a paper airplane and opened my window. It glided onto his roof. Hopefully, he’d see it after school, but even I knew if I didn’t hear anything hit my window later tonight I’d probably throw something at his, and risk looking horribly desperate. 

Then I laughed. Well, I _was_ desperate. I tucked the unfolded paper airplane away in my desk drawer with the first one he’d sent me. My fingers trailed over his hand writing, and twice over his name. 

Even though I should have known this the first time I saw him, I only realized it right in that moment. 

Shit. I have it bad for this guy.

… 

When I got home from school, I darted up the stairs to my room so fast the railing shook. Partly because I was so pathetically excited, and partly because I was fucking beaming and didn’t want anyone to ask me why. 

Jean had talked to me in math. Oh my God, he had fucking acknowledged my existence in public.

When I thought it like that, it sounded pretty bad. Yeah, okay, it was pretty bad. Nothing to brag about out loud that was for sure, because it probably sounded even worse spoken.

In any case, he had glanced at me when I entered the room, and when the teacher asked us to pair up to work on a problem together, he came to sit by me. I saw his usual partner squint his eyes at me and then get all confused.

Suck it, Thomas.

As soon as Jean sat next to me, he asked, “I take it you’re good at this shit?”

I shrugged, and gave him my best I-totally-don’t-think-anything-of-your-presence expression. “I pass.”

“Doing better than me,” he replied, and that was that. 

I “helped” him the entire hour, even though he spent the entire hour correcting all the shit I’d done wrong. 

I seriously couldn’t stop grinning, even as I belly-flopped onto my bed.

As the hours passed though, I grinned less and less. I endured dinner, the whole time pretending I was fine. My parents talked about Thanksgiving, and how well Mikasa had done on her physics test, and how I looked like I was bummed about something. I said I wasn’t several times. My mom called me moody. My dad told me to quit pouting. Then they asked me if I had plans this weekend, even though they knew I didn’t. Naturally, the next question they asked after I told them I didn’t have plans, was: Are you sure everything’s okay?

God, why do you let them do this? What did I ever do to you?

I excused myself as soon as I could without getting a lecture.

Once upstairs, I dared to peer out my window to see if there was a paper airplane. There wasn’t. 

But Jean’s light was on, and he was pacing back and forth in his room. He froze like a dog that had been caught eating table food when he saw my bedroom light come on. 

Fuck, I was blushing. I reached for the string to close my blinds, but he did this really cute thing where he ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. I blushed even more darkly. I’m sorry I told my mom I wouldn’t call you cute, Jean. I'll never let it happen again. 

He took a step toward his window, and slid it up so that he could peek out. 

“Uh…hey,” he said.

“Hi. Did you get my airplane?” I asked, even though there very obviously wasn’t an airplane sitting on his roof, and I wasn’t so lucky that the wind could have blown it away or something.

“Uh yeah,” he said, “Sorry. I was gonna throw something just…just didn’t – anyway.”

“Anyway,” I repeated.

We stared at each other for a few seconds. It was really awkward, but it was also like it wasn’t happening. We were both looking each other up and down too much to even remember we were supposed to be talking. It was like looking in the mirror at myself, only way, way, way better. 

“What’d you uh…what’d you want to talk about?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Whatever you want." The wind bit at my limbs. It felt good on my burning face, but it made Goosebumps crop up everywhere else. “Oh uh…hey, it’s cold. Do you wanna…?”

I was going to ask him if he wanted to come in my room, then I realized there wasn’t any way for him to do that.

But he stood up on the ledge of his window, inched down to the edge of his roof right by the gutter, and then he fucking jumped. He landed on my roof, hissing and cursing under his breath as he slid for a second. Then he stood up and climbed his way up to my window like he was walking up porch stairs. He even tucked his hands in his pocket. Jean swung through my bedroom window.

Yeah, my face got a little stuck looking at him. I didn’t know it was possible to be this turned on without getting a boner.

“Eren!” My mom called from downstairs, saving me from making a complete ass of myself. 

I held up my finger to signal for him to wait, and walked over to my door. I opened it. “What!”

“What was that noise?” my mom called up the stairs.

“I uh…” I couldn’t tell her Jean was here, let alone tell her he just king-konged onto our roof. “I fell!”

“Be careful!” she yelled.

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Be careful, Eren,” Jean teased. 

“Shut up,” I groaned, as I turned around. As soon as I did, I realized, holy shit. Jean Kirstein was in my bedroom. He was wearing a stupid tank top, and running his fingers through his hair again…

And oh God, I wasn’t prepared for this. 

“Can I sit?” he asked. I nodded somehow. 

He sat on my bed, and I sat on my computer chair. His head turned back and forth as his eyes searched my room. I almost found the energy to pray there was nothing embarrassing sitting around. 

Then he turned his head just right, and I got a better look at his face. His eye was black and blue. It was worse than it had been this morning.

“Do the teachers ever ask about your bruises?” 

He flinched. He stared at me for a moment, internally debating something, before he answered. “Yeah.”

“What do you say?”

“Tell 'em I got in a fight." 

“Why don’t you uh…why don’t you tell them the truth?”

“Because I don’t want more bruises.” The way he said it, I could easily picture him saying these words as a child. It made him seem young, and fragile. I felt the urge to protect him, but knew I couldn’t. He was younger than me, but he was big for a freshmen, and I was skinny for a sophomore. 

So, instead of shielding him from all things bad, I nodded. “Uh…sorry I uh…brought it up.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “You didn’t tell anyone, so I don’t care.”

“Why would I tell?”

“Because everyone thinks it’s that simple. Everyone who finds out thinks they can just tell someone what’s happening and the problem will be solved. But they can’t, all they do is put my mom in a position to defend my dad.” He rubbed his face like he’d just woken up, or maybe like someone had just died. I didn’t think he was crying. It was more like he was trying to rub his expression off his face. When he pulled his hands away he ran one of them through his hair again. 

“Your mom defends him?”

He was quiet. 

Fuck, if I had ruined this already, I’d hate myself. I opened my mouth to apologize, but he cut me off. 

“Yeah. I mean…she doesn’t…look she tried, okay? And he went to prison for a while and then…then he got out of prison and almost – almost…” he stammered. His lip quivered.

He paused and shook his head. He wouldn’t look at me. “Hey, you don’t have to tell me, man. Let’s talk about something else," I offered, feeling like the second biggest piece of shit on Earth again.

When his eyes met mine again they were all bloodshot and glossy. I knew he wouldn’t let himself cry. He bit his lip and nodded at me. “Yeah, okay.”

So we did. We talked about where he was from. We talked about our school, and Superior, and if he liked it here. He didn’t. I agreed. We talked about what movies we liked, our favorite music genres, and we talked shit about people at school. We made fun of our teachers. 

We agreed on a lot of things. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had such an easy conversation with someone. For once, I wasn’t wearing a mask. I wasn’t tucking my heart away where it couldn’t be found. We just talked. I spun in my chair, and he laid back in my bed and sprawled all his limbs out. 

He smiled often, but most the time it had some hint of mischief. I figured a pure smile from him, with no cockiness, no arrogance, no mischief or smugness was something I’d have to sell my soul to see. In any case, I’d be waiting for it. 

He had a great laugh too, and I made sure to commit it to memory, because I had the feeling he wouldn’t be doing that much either. 

“Do you read?” I asked, after he’d already been in my room for over an hour. 

He perked his head up. His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

I couldn’t exactly look at him and say “Well you see, I spend a lot of time spying on you because I have no fucking life,” and so I shrugged instead. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I know it’s kinda lame though.”

I shook my head. “Nah, it’s not lame. I mean, I read a lot of comic books. But I can’t get into real books.”

He sat up in the bed. “You never read any books? Like at all?”

I shook my head. “What books do you read?”

He blushed. Oh God, I couldn’t even look at him. Either I was going to ruffle his hair and pinch his cheeks, or I was going to rip his shirt off, and both of them were awful and probably one form of legal harassment or another. 

“I don’t know just…pretty much anything I pick up,” he said. 

“Holy shit,” I replied. “That’s a lot.”

He nodded. “I don’t have a TV or a computer or anything. So other than drawing –”

“You draw?” I blurted.

His eyes widened and his face was the color of a cherry tomato. “Uh yeah…I mean, only if I’m like _super_ bored. I don’t even like to.”

“Are you any good?”

“Not at all."

“Can I see?”

“Why, so you can make fun of it?” he said, sitting up in bed. His expression turned into a scowl, and without thinking I shifted from my computer chair to the bed. He looked like he was about to comment on it, but I interrupted his thought.

“No! No I wouldn’t – Dude, literally anything you draw would be better than me.”

His eyes narrowed, like he didn’t believe me. “I don’t know, it’s kind of personal.”

I nodded, trying to hide my disappointment. I didn’t even know why it mattered to me. “Yeah, okay.”

We were quiet for a second. Then he asked, “Do you have any of your comic books here?”

So then I showed him my comic books. And showing him comic books flowed into looking up shit online. That turned into watching Youtube videos and arguing over whether Marvel was better than DC. Discussing which superheroes could kick which superheroes asses.

My favorite superhero was batman, his were the the X-men. I preferred DC and he preferred Marvel. We argued. Heatedly. He won, but I didn’t mind, because for about five minutes afterward he wore this huge grin and it looked damn good on him. 

He leaned back in the computer chair. I looked up at him from the floor. He crossed his arms behind his head and his shirt rose up his stomach just enough to expose his happy trail and the 'V' leading to his…

Shit, was I drooling? I wiped my mouth. Close call. 

“Man,” he said, “I wish I had a computer.”

“You don’t even have one like…downstairs?” I knew he had a desk and a computer chair, but I’d never seen a computer. I’d never seen him on a laptop or anything either. 

He shook his head.

“What about your phone. Can’t you look shit up on your phone?” I asked.

“Don’t have a phone either,” he said, “besides the house phone.”

My eyebrows rose. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He shook his head again. 

“How do you uh…do like your papers and stuff?” I asked.

“I can stay after school at the library.”

“Don’t you miss your bus?” I asked, knowing he couldn’t have a license yet. He nodded. “So what, then you have to wait for your mom to pick you up?”

He smiled at me like felt sorry for me. “No, then I have to walk home.”

I shook my head. “You keep doing that you’ll freeze.”

“I’ll be fine."

“No, seriously, that’s fucked up…It’s like five miles away,” I said. He shrugged. “Do you even own a coat?”

“I wear like two sweatshirts and a t-shirt." 

I shook my head again. “Dude just…just come here, okay? You can do your homework on my computer and shit.”

“I’m fine." He shrugged. 

“I know you're fine,” I said. He wasn’t fine. “But wouldn’t this just be easier?”

He bit his lip. He didn’t want my charity, I could tell, because _I_ wouldn’t want _his_ charity. I was beginning to realize we were alike. But the offer was too tempting, I knew. “Fine, if it’ll get you to shut up about it.”

I pretended to believe that was the only reason he agreed, and nodded my head. “Thanks.”

He nodded.

“Do you want one of my old coats?” I asked.

“Won’t fit me." He smirked.

I rolled my eyes. “You’re not _that_ much bigger than me, man,” I said. He chuckled. 

“Are you going to keep bugging me about it if I say no?” he asked.

“Yeah."

“Alright, fine,” he said through a sigh, “I’m not wearing it if it looks stupid though.”

I went and got him the coat I wore last year from my closet. It was black, and lined on the inside with some sort of fur, but the fur wasn’t visible on the outside. It had a hood too, which I knew he would need and be grateful for later. There weren’t any stains, or tears, although it had clearly survived a winter or two. Rough around the edges, like him. 

Still, he stared at it like it had said something nasty about something behind his back. He pulled it on anyway. I watched the muscles in his back roll as he did.

He turned to face me, and zipped it up. 

“How stupid do I look?” he asked.

“It’s pretty bad,” I replied, “but the coat helps.”

He shoved me and I laughed. “Seriously? How bad?” 

“You look fine, relax. No one thinks anything of coats here, man. You gotta do it.”

He nodded. Then he bit his lip and got all flustered again and oh God, I almost didn’t make it. 

“Thanks,” he said. He tried to say it like it was no big deal, but I saw his lip tremble. He couldn't look me in the eye either.

“No problem.”

There was a knock at my door.

Why? Just, why? Give me one good reason, God.

I opened my door. Mikasa’s eyes peered in at me, and then at Jean. “Mom wants you to turn your movie down.” 

We weren’t watching a movie. So, there was a good reason after all. 

I cleared my throat. “Uh…I’ll uh…do that.”

She nodded. “I would.”

Then she left, and I closed my door. I turned to face Jean, who was still staring at where she’d been standing.

“Are you in trouble?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Who was she?” 

“My sister.”

“She’s Asian though.”

I winced. “Yeah, I’m adopted. She is too. My parents are…like that.”

His eyebrows rose. "Oh."

“Yeah."

“She’s not gonna tell your parents?” he asked.

I shrugged, “Don’t think so, no. Mikasa probably doesn’t give a shit.” 

He nodded his head, looking more relieved than he needed to. 

I only realized then, that I had expected Jean to say _something_ about Mikasa’s appearance. Most guys did. In my eyes, she was my sister, and even if she wasn’t, I wouldn’t think she was attractive, but I could still tell that she was. She was very pretty, prettier than most girls, and for some reason guys felt the need to inform me of this. 

Jean didn’t say anything. I doubted that meant anything, but it was still better than hearing him rub his straightness in. 

“I guess I uh…should probably go,” he said.

“Yeah.” I didn’t want him to. I wondered if he was wishing he could stay. And if he was wishing to stay, was it because he wanted to be around me or because he didn’t want to be around his dad? I’d never know. Not this time, and not any times I saw him after this. But at least I’d be seeing him again. 

He walked across the room to my window, still wearing my old coat. He opened it, but before he stepped out he looked over his shoulder at me.

“You were serious? I can do my homework here?” he asked.

I nodded. The corners of his mouth pinched and I realized he was trying not to smile.

“Cool,” he said, “See ya’, man.”

Then he climbed out of the window and catapulted onto his own roof again. His window was still open and he slid inside, shutting the window behind him.

I stole one last glance at him as he pulled my coat off in his room and put it on his bed. Then I shut my window and closed my blinds.

I undressed and crawled into the same bed he’d been laying in a half hour ago. 

Good night, Jean. 

…

November 21, 2014  


I sent Eren a stupid paper airplane. I thought he was going to give me shit, but he didn’t. 

He was my math partner too. Thomas drives me crazy anyway and is always talking about the girls in our class and I fucking

Okay, anyway. When I got home I was freaking out, ‘cause he asked me to throw something at his window in the note he sent. If I threw something at his window he’d open his so we could talk. I didn’t want to look desperate to talk to him and I was also super nervous to talk to him so I put it off for like a really long time.

Dad got drunk in that time and hit me because he found out I stole some of his cigarettes, and then I was in mom’s bedroom for like an hour trying to get her to calm down because she just…like sometimes it just really gets to her, I guess. Sometimes she’s really numb, and doesn’t even react. Sometimes she pretends it didn’t happened. And then there are times like tonight when she gets really drunk too and just cries and cries and cries. 

I always tell her “So do something then. Call the cops. Or I will.”

Even though I won’t, and I know I won’t, and she knows I won’t, and dad knows I won’t.

‘Cause last time he went to prison, and yeah, it was the best eighteen months of my life…but before he got to prison he almost beat her to death. He put her in the hospital and she was in a coma for like ten days or whatever. 

If we tried to do it again, he might kill her. He might kill me. And I wanted to tell Eren this when he asked, but I didn’t. I just don’t want to make mom look bad, and even though Eren hasn’t told anyone yet, that doesn’t mean he won’t change his mind. 

Ugh, fuck, my hand hurts and I haven’t even gotten to the important part. After mom and dad were both finally passed out I ran back upstairs. I was about to throw a pencil at his bedroom window, but started freaking out. I don’t fucking know why I was freaking out. I just…I don’t know. It matters what he thinks of me. Not what he thinks of school me. Everyone likes school me.

But he knows that’s not the real me. And it matters if he likes the real me, because he’s the only person that makes me want to BE me. 

Anyway, he ended up opening his window and I couldn’t put it off any longer.

I went over to his place. He’s really

He fucking cares about whether or not I’m cold. He cared that I have to walk home sometimes. He’s going to let me do my homework there. And he gave me a coat. It smells like him. It kinda smells like dust too, but whatever. I don’t care, because he’s paid more attention to me than my parents have in the last five years.

He knows I read. He seemed really impressed when I told him how much I read and it made me feel like… It was just nice to hear for once. He knows I draw too, and he doesn’t think it’s lame even though I fucking think it’s lame.

He asked to see my drawings. He’d never talk to me again if he saw anything I’ve been drawing lately.

That reminds me, I need to steal a green, colored pencil in art class. His eyes just don’t look right in graphite.


	3. Frayed Pages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter Eren has no idea what's happening, Jean discovers a secret, Eren bandages Jean, and Jean lies to you.

November 27, 2014

Eren invited me over to his place for Thanksgiving, sense my family wasn’t doing anything earlier. I didn’t go at first. There were at least five cars parked on the streets outside of our houses. Any one of the people that came in those cars could have looked at me wrong and figured it out. When he opened his window to talk to me, I heard everyone in his house downstairs. I told him I wouldn’t go.

He had looked disappointed. Or at least I think he did. Maybe I’m just telling myself that.

Anyway, he came back with a plate of food like fifteen minutes later. He told me that I could at least jump over and hang out in his bedroom for a while so that I could eat, and I did. I had to. There was so much food and all I’d had earlier that day so far was Eggo waffles.

No one heard when I jumped onto the roof at least. I sat in Eren’s room with him as I ate, trying not to swallow it all at once along with the plate. 

“Why aren’t you hanging out with your family?” I asked. 

“They’d rather bug Mikasa,” he said. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he spoke, and wouldn’t look at me. 

“Why?” 

“Because there’s actually shit to ask her. She’s in a couple of sports and does really well in school and stuff. My parents never shut up about her. All they ever ask me is when I’m gonna get a girlfriend.”

“You don’t have one?” 

Until then, I had just assumed he must. I never see him with anyone, but I figured his family was strict about having people over. He is…I mean he looks like the type of guy that would have a girlfriend, I guess. There isn’t anything like…wrong with him, or whatever. 

He shook his head.

“Why not?” 

“I don’t know…just not worried about it right now I guess,” he said. His hands couldn’t keep still. Every once in a while I look out my window and see him pacing around, or sitting in his computer chair spinning. He can never keep still, but this was different than that. He was fidgeting.

“Do you like anyone?” I was probably asking too many questions. It probably wasn’t my Goddamn business, but whatever. I was curious.

He didn’t answer right away. He just kind of…he blushed. It made me wonder if I could draw it. If I could steal a pink pencil to go with the green one I’d taken earlier that week and draw him blushing just like that, but without making him look like a girl and making him look like…like the way he looked then. Blushing should have made him look weird, but it didn’t. It looked nice, I guess. Like, artistically or whatever. 

It took him forever to reply, but when he did he said, “Yeah.”

“Who?” I probably sounded really uncool asking him. Guys aren’t supposed to ask each other that, are they? Well, maybe they ask each other, but they aren’t supposed to actually care or have any reason for asking. I don’t know why I did. I don’t know anything anymore. 

“Why would I tell you?” 

“Why not?”

“Because you’re going to give me shit.”

“So?” He shoved me with his elbow. I realize now I should have told him ‘No I won’t’ but that was a lie and I hate lying. I do it so much at school. I lie about everything and I just kind of like that with Eren I don’t have to. Yeah, he gets pissed sometimes at the stuff I say, but I also feel like I could tell him anything and no matter how mad he got it wouldn’t be enough to make him hate me. I’ve never had that with anyone before.

I don’t think he feels that way about me though. If he can’t even tell me who he likes…especially because it’s probably some really hot sophomore that I’ve never met that probably wouldn’t even socialize with me…I doubt he feels like he can tell me much.

But that doesn’t really matter. That’s his problem if he doesn’t think he can tell me stuff. 

But I still don’t really get him. If he likes someone, why isn’t he worried about getting a girlfriend? That doesn’t really make sense to me, and it doesn’t make sense that he couldn’t get a girlfriend either.  


He probably just doesn’t want to tell me. 

Anyway, we kept talking. “What about you?” he asked.

“What about me what?”

“Do you like anyone?”

I shook my head then, but now I think I hesitated. He might have seen me do it, I don’t know, but he didn’t say anything. I don’t really have any idea what he was thinking because I looked away from him when I shook my head. I hate lying to him so much that I can’t even do it right around him.

He probably didn’t notice, because right after that his dad yelled at him to come downstairs from the other side of his door. Dude sounded pissed, but Eren didn’t look scared. Eren just looked like he was trying not to throw something. Eren has no reason to be afraid of them. Eren wasn’t an accident. He was especially not an accident, because he’s adopted, apparently. I suppose I should have realized that sooner, I just wasn’t really paying that close of attention to his family. Once I did though, it was obvious. His parents are white and I think he said he was Mexican, but I can’t remember for sure. The point is his parents fucking wanted him.

Whenever he talks about his family or his sister he gets really uptight. His hands turn into fists and he shakes his head a lot. 

I always assumed parents who adopted kids must really want someone in their lives to love, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe his parents didn’t get what they ordered.

Even though there’s NOTHING wrong with Eren. 

Shit, it’s almost midnight. I was waiting for Eren’s bedroom light to go out, but my hand is cramping and I think I heard someone walking in the hallway. Might as well go to bed, or at least turn off my bedroom light and pull out my flashlight so I can read. 

…

There was no getting used to Jean being around. Anywhere he was, he looked out of place, like a book someone had carried around the store and dropped off in a section it didn’t belong, and this section just happened to be my bedroom.

I imagined that if he were a book, he’d be a softcover and frayed at the edges, with thick, sturdy pages that were gray in color and a tiny font size. He’d be one of those books with dozens of chapters, and each paragraph would need to be read more than once because it didn’t matter how closely read that paragraph was there was something missed. I almost laughed out loud, thinking of this, because I would never read a book like that. But really, if he were a book the frayed pages of his book would be because of me. 

Currently he was hunched over in my computer chair. His head turned back and forth between the computer screen and whatever he was writing in his notebook beside him on the desk. 

The muscles in his back were tense, and every few seconds he reached back to rub circles into different spots. He’d groan or curse afterward and I would go off the air for a second or two before any coherency returned to my head. 

I sat on my bed leaning against my headboard, with one of my pillows very specifically angled over my lap in a way I meant to look casual but was probably more obvious than a neon sign. My own textbook – geography textbook, my best class – was on top of my pillow, and I too was writing in one of my notebooks – not my geography notebook, but I couldn’t be bothered to stand and grab my backpack, okay – about the fault lines or whatever in California kind of. 

That was a lie, and a bad one too because I couldn’t pretend I didn’t know what I was actually writing.

I had scratched out eight different sentences. Each one of these eight sentences was a poorly proposed question I had considered asking Jean. 

It was the “Do you like dick?” question, but I had to be strategic. This was pretty much life or death. No matter what way I mapped it out on paper, I couldn’t find the right words or arrange them in the way I needed to that was at least ten percent mild homophobia, thirty percent giving him shit, twenty percent 'hey if you’re gay I’m here for you man kind of', and forty percent this question doesn’t make me gay at all I swear unless you are and in that case I’m very. 

That was only the first, most obvious issue about asking him this question.

The second was that if I asked him if he was gay in my super discreet, clever way, and he said yes, then he might ask me. What would I do then? Other than thank God for getting one thing right, what was I supposed to say to him? I could say yes, but how awkward would that be? If I said I was, he’d probably figure out why I had asked first. He’d figure out that when I told him I liked someone and refused to tell him who, I meant him. 

Jean wheeled around to face me, and I flinched. He arched an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything about it. He tapped his pencil against his thigh. “Do you have a printer?”

I nodded. “It’s downstairs.”

“I need to print this article,” he said, gesturing to the computer behind him with his thumb. 

I stood and stepped toward the computer. He wheeled out of the way, but not far enough that I couldn’t feel his body heat. He sat right behind me as I clicked on the print button and sent the article he’d copied and pasted into Word to the printer. His leg bumped into mine when I stepped away again, and I shivered. He didn’t notice my blush as I walked away. He just lounged in the chair, rocking back and forth on it for a second before he spun it around. For a moment, I was the slightest bit jealous of my computer chair, because well…

Okay, this was it. This was the lowest moment of my life. 

“Be right back,” I said to him. He nodded and returned to the keyboard. 

I ran down stairs, attempting to dart into my dad’s office unnoticed. It didn’t work. My mom had a sixth sense for that sort of shit, and just when my fingers wrapped around the handle to the office she yelled, “Eren?”

I sighed in defeat, and turned around. “What?”

“Come say hi to your sister’s friend,” she yelled from the living room.

“Why?” I groaned.

“Because we’re a friendly and welcoming family and she can hear you.”

I wondered to what extent my mom’s guilt trips could do to save the world. I swore, all my mom had to do was wear a look of disappointment and she could melt a hardened criminal into the type of person that would end up in the big brother program or volunteer at a soup kitchen.

I walked into the living room, but I made sure I looked aggravated and impatient. Take that, mom.

As soon as her eyes met mine from where she sat in her recliner, she sighed, and I ducked my head a little and bit my lip. Sorry, mom.

I turned my head to face Mikasa and her friend. She was shorter than me, with blond hair that didn’t quite reach her shoulders and bangs. She had huge blue eyes too. They looked childish, but her face wore an expression I’d only ever seen on adults, usually teachers or grandmas. Her body was tiny, but her posture was professional. She wore a blue cardigan and jeans. When her eyes met mine, she smiled. I felt like she knew everything about me already, and really no one should be subjected to that. 

Mikasa first looked at her friend, and then at me. “This is Arianne. Arianne, this is my brother, Eren.”

“Hi,” I said. My voice squeaked. “Are you uh…in volley ball or something?”

She shook her head. “I’m in debate with Mikasa. You know that you and I have English together, right?”

“We do?” I asked, blushing. She nodded her head and chuckled. Mikasa looked so exhausted. 

“We’re going to go, now,” Mikasa said. She looked first at me, but then at mom. The expression she wore dared my mom to argue.

Mikasa, why haven’t you ever taught me to do that? 

“Okay, well,” I said, “I’m uh…gonna go print?” No one answered my question that wasn’t meant to be a question, so I turned around and headed to the office again.

I opened the door, and my dad was in there sitting on the futon, reading. 

“I printed something,” I said, pointing to the printer.

He glanced at me. I knew I was being put under a microscope, because my dad dragged his glasses down his nose to get a better look at me. He scratched his beard. I hated when he looked like a therapist, and I hated that he thought it was better for him to look and act like my therapist than to just be my fucking dad. “Did you see Mikasa’s new friend?”

I nodded. “Arianne,” I replied, somewhat proud I had remembered her name.

“Do you have any classes with her? She’s your age,” he said.

I nodded.

“Mikasa tells me she’s in a lot of honor’s classes though, really smart. Already has ten college credits,” he said.

So now this conversation was one of two things. 1) Why don’t you have ten college credits? 2) Why don’t you date her?

“Uh-huh,” I said, as I grabbed Jean’s article out of the printer sitting on the desk next to my dad’s lap top. That way I could act like I wasn’t avoiding eye contact on purpose.

Sometimes people thought that Grisha was my real dad, because his eyes looked so much like mine. His hair too, was brown like mine. And I hated that. I hated when people thought he was my real dad, or that my mom was my real mom because for a white person she had pretty tan skin. I hated it because somewhere out there in the world, my real dad and my real mom had my eyes and my skin color. No one would ever look at me and say I had my dad’s eyes and mean anyone but Grisha. 

But my eyes meant something to me. When people met me it was the first thing they commented on. Everyone had their thing, ya’ know? 

When people met Mikasa, without fail, they tell her she speaks really good English (even though that’s the only language she speaks).

When people met my mom they commented on her smile, and when people met my dad they told him he sounded smart or really intelligent or whatever. 

When people met me they commented on my eyes. And whenever people did, I knew there was a man or woman out there that had given them to me. Whoever that person was, they were Mexican, they spoke Spanish, and they had given me my brown skin. This was all I had from them. My body. My traits. My skin. I didn’t even have the language. 

And it hurt more than anything that people looked at me, then looked at Grisha, who had a completely different culture and background and story and they thought “Yeah, those eyes are green, too. Eren must have gotten them from him.” They weren’t even the same green. They were completely different greens, but people didn’t pay attention to that. People didn’t care where I came from or who gave me green eyes. They cared about the person who gave me the name “Eren” instead of “José” or some other Spanish name. 

“Eren?” Why must you remind me? I sighed. I’d zoned out, looking at Jean’s article. I supposed my dad thought I was reading. I faced my dad. He looked concerned, but I was his patient again. “Do you think she’s a nice girl?” he asked.

“Uh-huh,” I said. I wasn’t really sure if she was or not, but from what little I could remember of her in my English class now that I was thinking about it, people were more mean to her than she ever was to anyone else.

“You should try to get to know her,” dad said. “Mikasa tells me she collects comic books.”

“Yeah, sure, dad,” I said, as I stapled the pages of Jean’s article together. 

My dad sighed. “Am I being too obvious?”

“You’re embarrassing yourself.”

My dad nodded. “She’s not your type then? She looks pretty to me. Maybe a little boyish, but there’s nothing wrong with that.”

I rolled my eyes, but made sure my dad couldn’t see. There was nothing wrong with me liking someone who was boyish as long as they weren’t a boy. 

“She’s pretty,” I said, and it wasn’t really a lie. It just didn’t matter to me that she was. “I’ll try to get to know her.”

My dad smiled. I smiled back, but it didn’t feel right on my face. “Well, even if it’s just for your sister,” he said. 

I nodded at him, as if there was any reason why Mikasa would give a shit if I got to know her friends. 

I left the office then and darted back up the stairs. I almost bulldozed over Mikasa though and I stumbled into the wall trying to avoid her.

“What?” I hissed, when she pulled me by my shirt away from my bedroom door. 

I faced her in the hallway. Light from her bedroom streamed into the hall. Fall Out Boy was playing. I could hear it coming from her room and Arianne was humming to “Save Rock N’ Roll”.

“Listen to me,” she said, and because it was my sister, and because I knew she wouldn’t do this if it weren’t important, I did listen.

“What?” I asked, but this time I wasn’t being an asshole about it.

“Arianne’s name isn’t Arianne, it’s Armin. And Armin isn’t a girl, he’s a boy, okay?”

“Huh?” I replied, rubbing my face because I was certain I got lost in the middle of that. I couldn’t have possibly heard her right.

“Mom and dad and everyone else are going to call him Arianne, and act like he’s a girl, but he’s not, okay?”

I was still rubbing my face, trying to make sense of her words. “What do you mean? He’s a boy that likes to dress like a girl?” I asked, “So?”

“No,” she replied, “He doesn’t. His parents make him.”

“Why would his parents do that?”

She sighed, and closed her eyes for a minute. I pictured steam blowing out of her ears. “His parents think he’s a girl, because he was born –”

“Oh!” I said, “Oh! Shit, gotcha.” 

I grinned. She shook her head to let me know how slow I was being. I already know, Mikasa. You don’t have to give me that look. 

“Just…please don’t call him a girl. He’s uh…he’s important to me.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Like…like what kind of important?”

She tucked her nose into her hoodie and looked away from me. She blinked a few times. Oh my God. What the fuck was going on? How long had I been in my bedroom? 

“Are you guys…?” I started.

She shook her head. “Not…not like that. It’s just – It’s like – I don’t know. He’s important, okay?”

“Uh, sure,” I replied, “Yeah. Okay uh…what did you say uh – his name was again?”

“Armin.”

I nodded at her, and took a step toward my bedroom door, still somewhat in a daze. When my sister wrapped her arms around me from behind, I thought for certain that I had been in my room for much longer than I thought. Like a year or something, or maybe I’d hit my head against the wall harder than I realized and was experiencing some weird kind of amnesia. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, and before I could ask her if she had been drinking she had disappeared into her bedroom. The door had already been clicked shut. 

I walked into my bedroom, and as soon as I did Jean flinched. He scrambled at the computer, clicking on the mouse a dozen times too many before he pulled away from it, shoving all of his shit into his backpack and snatching the article away from me.

“Are you okay?” I asked. Was I okay? Was anyone okay? 

“Huh?” he said, running his fingers through his air, and turning his head back and forth more than once like he couldn’t remember how he got here. “Uh yeah. Yeah I’m cool, just done with my shit. Thanks for uh, printing that uh… thing for me.”

“Sure,” I said.

“I should go."

“Why?”

“I was uh…I was going to –”

Because I had no self-control, and apparently no interest in hiding the fact that I was sort of his part-time stalker, I asked, “Are you going to write?”

“What?” he asked. 

“I always see you writing out there,” I said, pointing to my window. “I thought maybe it was homework, but I don’t know.”

He bit his lip. He blushed. How dare you, Jean. First I had to sit through all of your stupid back rubs and grunts and now this. Don’t do this to me. 

“I write…why?”

I shrugged. “’Cause that’s cool. What do you write about?”

“My life."

“Like a diary?” Then Jean glared at me in a way that could douse a fire and I put my hands up in defense. “Okay, not like a diary. I get it.”

“It’s just something I do when I’m bored."

“On the roof?” I asked. “Don’t you get cold?”

“Well, I did, but now I uh…I have a coat so…” His blush deepened as he looked away from me, rubbing his arm. I fell into the world’s shortest coma for about sevenish seconds and it took another three or four more to waft out of that. 

“Oh, right,” I mumbled. He nodded, and we both stared at each other for a second in a room that was filled wall to wall with awkward. 

He rubbed his neck. “Anyway, I’ll see you later?”

I nodded. In like five minutes probably, when I peek through my blinds, but I’m not going to tell you that. 

He disappeared through my window. First he tossed his backpack onto his roof. Then he jumped onto it himself. 

I closed my window and my blinds. 

…

November 29, 2014

I know why Eren wouldn’t tell me who he likes. 

I was on his computer today. He left the room for a couple of minutes. And I started going through his shit. I don’t know why I did. I just wanted to know more about him. I was just going to check out his Facebook, I swear. I didn’t know what I would find, but I swear to fucking God I wasn’t looking for anything specific. I wasn’t even trying to find out who he liked. I didn’t think I’d find anything. 

I don’t know why I did it. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me that there might be

I just haven’t had a computer in forever. I forget what people use them for. And I haven’t gone a single day since I was five years old without hiding something. I’m good at hiding things. I forget that other people aren’t. 

I don’t know what to do. 

…

Sometimes my life was a book, and sometimes my life was the shitty movie that was based off the book. 

Let me take a moment to look at the moments in my life that were scenes from the shitty movie that was based off the book.

They were:

The sex talk. There was only one thing that needed to be said about that and it was, “When a mommy loves a daddy…”  


Already, the sex talk didn’t apply to me. It wasn’t about me. It wasn’t meant for me, even though it was being said to me.

Then there was health class. There was only one thing that needed to be said about that and it was, “The only way to 100% avoid pregnancy is abstinence.”  


Again, didn’t apply to me. It was being taught to me, and yet it was completely ignoring me. 

And there even was the straight parents that weren’t homophobic. All that needed to be said about that was, “I don’t care if you’re gay…but I just don’t want to see it.”  


This did apply to me. And when my mom said it, and my dad nodded in agreement, they didn’t know they were saying it to me. They didn’t know that what they were basically saying was, “I guess I don’t mind letting gay people exist, even though it repulses me to the point where I can’t even look at it.” They didn’t know they were telling me they never wanted to see me.

There were other moments in my life too, but these were the things the straight director would focus on. These were the clichés. These were the stories that almost all gay people experienced, and all straight people had heard. And in this shitty movie that was based off the book, I’d have a high-pitched voice and I’d say the word ‘fabulous’ all of the time, or at least by the end of the movie. I’d wear skinny jeans and scarves and have a crush on the quarterback. I’d fuss over my hair. Hell, they’d probably make me white. And yeah, of course their were plenty of gay men out there that fit that exact description, and nothing was wrong with them. The problem was, every single one of them was more than that too. _I_ was more than that. I was my own person. In this shitty movie that was based off the book though, I wouldn't be.

But then there were the moments in my life that were part of the book. The moments a movie would brush over, because it would be too much for a straight audience to confront. The moments that were too genuine, too fragile, too agonizing, to ever be accurately portrayed on a screen without knowing the character’s thoughts. 

Right now was one of those moments.

It was two AM when the world shook. The sound was so loud, so abrupt in the still of the night I thought the floor had fallen out beneath my bed. I jerked up into a sitting position and then sprung out of my bed, gripping onto the wall. My heart pounded loud in my ears, and I begged it to stop so I could hear what was happening. It took me a moment to realize that the noise I’d heard, the shaking of my floor, it was a familiar sensation. In the dead of night, it was amplified to an extreme, but I knew what had happened. 

The shadows in my room shifted, and I saw a silhouette outside my window. Fingertips tapped on my window, urgently, harshly, as if Jean would rather break the glass than go unnoticed.

I gathered up my heartbeats and slapped my chest to kick start my lungs, before I tip-toed over to my window and opened it. 

“What’s going –” I started, but I couldn’t finish. Jean clung to me. His arms tightened around me in a vise. He sobbed into my neck, whimpering like a child that had scuffed his knee. My neck became damp. I wrapped my arms around him.

“Jean?” I asked. 

“I can’t go back."

“Okay,” I choked.

“Not tonight.”

“Okay.”

God, why do you let this happen? Why won’t you make it stop? 

He held me for a long time. So long my legs went numb and prickly. His fingers dug into my back. One of my family members tapped on my door and asked if I was alright. I told them that I had fallen out of bed. 

Finally he pulled away from me. 

“Can you get me ice?” he said.

“What for?” 

“My nose,” he replied. My eyebrows furrowed and I squinted at him. He stood in front of my window, the only source of light, and I could see nothing. But when I reached for the lamp on my nightstand and flicked it on, the light clung to his face, and I realized my shoulder wasn’t just wet with tears.

Jean pinched his nose to try to stop the bleeding but it was relentless, flowing down his face onto his shirt. His cheek and jaw were swollen, his lip cut and his teeth covered in blood like he’d ripped an animal open with his mouth.

“Oh – Oh my God,” I choked, “Are you – is it broken?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No, don’t think so. Just hurts like hell and won’t stop bleeding.”

I stared for a moment longer before I realized what I was supposed to be doing. I scurried out of my bedroom down the stairs into my kitchen. No one was down stairs, so I didn’t bother to muffle the sounds of cracking ice cubes out of the tray into a cloth. I grabbed Tylenol and Bandaids from our bathroom too, while I was at it. Then I dashed back up the steps.

He took the ice from me and pressed it against his face. He sighed and it morphed into a hiss. I handed him the other stuff I’d grabbed and reached for my glass of water sitting next to my lamp. He took two of the pills and groaned again.

“This isn’t your mom’s favorite rag or anything is it?” he said, pointing toward his face.

I shook my head. I didn’t care if it was. 

At some point, he finally stopped bleeding. He used the untainted portions of the towel to wipe his face off and his neck. He winced when he touched the swollen parts of his face. He asked me to put a Bandaid on for him, and I placed that Bandaid on his nose as if he were made of Jenga blocks.

“Sorry uh…about this and uh…earlier,” he said. His eyes were watery again and he kept rubbing underneath his nose, but not to get rid of blood blood. He was sniffling. 

“It’s okay,” I said, desperately hoping he believed me. I finally shut my window and closed my blinds again. “Will your parents notice you’re gone?”

“I don’t know,” he replied.

“What will happen if they do?” I asked.

“The same thing that would have happened if I had stayed…just whenever I get home.”

I nodded. I wanted to ask him what happened. I wanted to ask him how he had gotten here without them knowing. I wanted to ask him if he would mind living in my bedroom full-time and letting me take care of him. But I knew better, so instead of asking him anything like that I asked if he wanted to use my sleeping bag.

“Can I sleep in – I mean, would that be too weird?” he asked, gesturing to the bed. 

I shook my head. 

“Sorry,” he said again. His lip trembled. 

“It’s okay.”

Jean nodded, and reached to pull his shoes and socks off. Sense his shirt was covered in blood, Jean tore that off too. His body was covered in bruises. There was more black and blue on him than I’d ever seen, and I reached for the light switch. The room flooded with darkness and I was relieved. 

Jean and I crawled into my bed. He was in his jeans, and I was in nothing but my boxers. We laid on our backs, both of us staring at my ceiling, both of us holding perfectly still. I wondered what was on his mind, as my eyes began to adjust and the rise and fall of his stomach was all I could see. I watched, and inhaled when he inhaled, and exhaled when he exhaled. 

I heard once, by someone who probably didn’t know what they were talking about, that human beings unconsciously did things together. Like when two people said the same thing at once, or two people called each other at the exact same time. When two people got the same gift for each other, or someone began to slow clap and suddenly everyone together began clapping. How standing ovations all happened at once, and everyone knew exactly how to clap to a song or at what pace to wave their lighter in the air.

Like when you were in a room and it was very loud, but for whatever reason for just a few seconds, everyone happened to become quiet at once. This person that had talked to me who probably didn’t know what they were talking about, told me that there was this theory that it happened all the time, and it happened to thousands of people at once. And that we were all connected somehow, or whatever. 

In that moment, the world had never been so quiet, I was sure. It had never been so calm. And it was just for us. 

Jean rolled over and placed his head on my chest. At first I didn’t move, because I thought maybe he thought I was asleep, and I didn’t want to scare him away. 

But then he said, “I’ve never had anyone I could go to before.”

I cleared my throat, and squirmed for a second so that I could get my arm wrapped around his shoulders. His skin was hot against mine. His fingers delicate on my chest, as they drew patterns on my skin that became Goosebumps. My fingers spread on his shoulder.

Thin paths of tears spread across my chest, but he was silent. I threaded my fingers through his hair. 

“You won’t say anything tomorrow will you?”

“About what?” 

“About this,” he whispered, “You won’t bring it up?”

I knew then, that moments like this for people like us, only ever happened at night. They happened in darkened bedrooms. They happened underneath the stars and the moon and heaven, between two people who had no families to go to because those families didn’t want to see it. Because the world didn’t want to see it. Because God didn’t want to see it. 

They happened underneath fingertips, underneath someone’s breath, between sheets and between threads of hair that were caked with blood and salt. They happened on top of bruises and Goosebumps. 

They happened in the frayed pages of paperback books that could be closed and hidden away between mattresses and underneath desks. 

They did not happen on big screens for everyone to see. 

“Of course not,” I whispered, “Don’t worry about it.”

“Thank you,” he whispered against my chest. His lips brushed against my skin. His breath was cool. I held onto him tightly, and stayed awake with the stars until they faded behind the sky, just counting his breaths.  


…

November 30, 2014 

Last night I went to Mikasa’s. Dad beat the shit out of me, and I couldn’t sleep in my bed. 

Eren let me in through his window, and I knocked on her door. She let me in, and got me ice. She gave me Tylenol and bandaged my nose. She was able to do it without hurting me.

I slept in her bed with her, and she held me against her chest all night, threading her fingers through my hair. She told me she wouldn’t tell anyone that I’d stayed with her. She wouldn’t bring it up in the morning, and she hadn't lied. This morning I left as soon as I woke up. She didn't say anything at all.

I don’t know if she wishes she could tell anyone. Maybe she does, I don’t know. But she’s the only person in my life I can be honest with, and I don’t know if I really want that with anyone else anyway. 

I don’t know if she realizes everything she’s done for me, but she’s the most important person in my life. I want her to know that. It’s not much. I want to give her so much more. I want to give her I love you, and I’ll never leave you, and no matter what happens I’m here for you. I want to be everything she needs. 

I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life. And I will take every beating that comes my way if it means being with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are reading this fic at the same time you are reading my other fic, The Things I Used to Know, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry this fic will not be updating as often as The Things I Used to Know. 
> 
> There are some reasons for this:
> 
> 1) Most of The Things I Used to Know was written before I began posting it. Between each chapter, all I have to do is edit the next one, and the story is written out already far ahead of what's already been posted. This fic is not. 
> 
> 2) The things I used to know is written more prominently in my voice than in Marco's, Jean's or Eren's. No More Wrongs to Write is written exclusively in Eren and Jean's voices, and this is very difficult for me.
> 
> 3) I am experimenting with style in this fic. I am not accustomed to writing from the perspective of a diary, writing in metaphor, or breaking the fourth wall the way Eren often does. I'm having fun writing like this, but it is forcing me to really push my creative limits. It's outside of my comfort zone, and sense I want this to be written well, I will be taking my time with chapters.
> 
> Thank you for understanding, if you were wondering. And also, please if you're going to leave a comment give me feedback on the writing style too!


	4. Papier-mâché

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter Eren hurts because Jean does, and Eren shows Jean a small corner of his world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to warn people ahead of time that Eren uses a racial slur towards himself in this chapter. He doesn't actually think of himself that way, and in context he's referring to how other people (racist people) see him. I mean for this part of the story to reflect on how society unfairly views Latin Americans and Mexicans, not for it to be taken as though I feel that way towards them. Race is a theme in this story, and something Eren thinks about often. If I've written it in a way that doesn't portray this, I am so sorry, please let me know.
> 
> Also just so you know, Jean implies that he has suicidal thoughts in this chapter, if you're sensitive to that sort of thing.

December 12, 2014

Mikasa invites me over almost every night now. I don’t always go, sometimes I can’t. Sometimes I can’t make myself. 

She hasn’t touched me once since she did that night, but I can’t stop thinking about it. If I don’t sleep there, it’s because I’m scared she’ll touch me like that again and I’ll give in and I’ll 

And when I do go, and she doesn’t touch me like that, I stay awake for so long, trying to take up as little of the bed as possible. Hoping she’ll touch me, and yet refusing to touch her. 

She lays however she wants next to me. Never too close to me, but not trying to keep distance either. Sometimes she realizes I’m still awake and tells me that I’m going to hate myself in the morning.

But I already do. 

Mom asked about her. Well no, she asked about Eren. “Are you still seeing that boy next door?” she asked. 

I was so mad. Because of course I wasn’t, I never was. I went over there to see Mikasa. And if she would have just asked me that when she first found out I was going over there, she wouldn’t have told dad I was sneaking into Eren’s room, and dad wouldn’t have had to beat the shit out of me for being a faggot. 

Whatever, I guess. Dad hasn’t touched me since. He’s hardly talked to me other than to ask me to grab him a beer or ask where his cigarettes went. 

I’m nervous though. It’s almost Christmas break. He’s always the worst during Christmas. 

…

Jean had been in my room for almost three days straight, and I couldn’t be any gayer about it. It was finals, and so he pretty much had no choice other than to Velcro himself to my computer chair to study and finish his papers. More than once I ended up just sharing the seat with him, as best as two lanky and overly-competitive boys could. 

He even showered here and I had a mild religious experience. Not the kind I wanted to, where he walked into my bedroom naked and glossed over with water looking so sexy I knew God had to be real.

No. My religious experience was when I realized I wanted him to do that badly enough that I almost actually prayed. It forced me to remind myself if I was ever going to pray I needed a good fucking reason because God probably didn’t take me very seriously as is. 

Anyway, so he didn’t come out wearing his towel around his waist like a Greek God or anything, but he did come out shirtless and I stared at him the same way I did at math tests.

What the fuck, I didn’t prepare for this. 

“Are you…just…rubbing it in?” I asked, so that he would think the reason I was staring at him was because I was jealous of his body. 

“What?” he asked, feigning ignorance and smirking. He was carrying his towel and he tossed it at me. I was so beyond motor functioning that I didn’t even try to catch it. The towel smacked into my face and wrapped around my head. Only then did I remember how to use my hands. I pulled it away from my face, just in time to see him bend over and pick up the shirt he’d been wearing earlier. He pulled it on over his chest and I grieved briefly.

I didn’t bother replying to him though. I just returned to my computer screen, clicking out of Amazon. While he was in the shower, I had decided that my history paper was as good as it was going to get and that I was never going to figure out the date that one article was published for my works cited and fuck it all to hell I quit.

I ended up on Amazon, searching for something I could get Jean for Christmas, and feeling like a dumbass while doing it because I’d never heard of guys getting each other gifts before. I couldn’t help it though. I had the worst feeling Jean wasn’t getting anything for Christmas, and even more than that he probably didn’t even really have a Christmas.

I spun around to face him in my chair. He was lying on his stomach in my bed with a notebook and a pencil. He hadn’t realized I spun around, and that was when I noticed his brow knitting in concentration. His hand was steady, and firm against the page as it moved in methodical dashes and flicks on his paper. He was drawing.

I leaned forward, just slightly in my chair to get a better look, but he jerked away.

“Sorry,” I blurted, “Just never seen you draw before.”

He closed the notebook. “It’s fine. Just uh…I don’t know. I’d rather draw than do homework.”

I’d rather watch you draw than do homework, but I didn’t say that.

“What were you drawing?” 

He blushed. “Well, uh…you were right in front of me so I just…”

“You were drawing me?” I had to pin my lip down with my teeth, trying not to smile. I only barely succeeded.

He nodded. “Just ‘cause you were ya’ know…right there.”

“Right,” I said. He ran his fingers through his hair and then sat up in the bed. He scooted off the bed and tucked his notebook into his backpack that was sitting on the floor. 

“Anyway uh, do you want to go to bed? You don’t mind if I stay here do you?” He always asked me even though he knew he could. I couldn’t believe he actually thought I minded. He was the one that laid in the bed like it was his first night in prison all of the time. Sometimes I wondered if it was because of me, and sometimes I wondered if that was just how he slept. Considering the house he lived in, it wouldn’t surprise me. I never wanted him sleeping there.

I shook my head. “Nah, I don’t give a shit. We can go to bed if you want.” 

He nodded and I stood from where I was sitting. I stood to turn off the lights, and then faced him. The moonlight peeked in through my blinds, casting long streaks of white light across Jean’s fair skin. His body was already tense, his face anxious like he thought I was a stranger now that it was dark. 

It was hard to explain, I guessed. But Jean turned into someone else when he thought no one could see him. I imagined he wore his expressions like he wore his T-shirt, and at night he peeled it all off like a withered Bandaid, leaving him tender and sensitive afterward.

I eased myself onto the bed, and he scooted up next to me. His back faced the window. He was a silhouette, so I couldn’t see his face, but I knew those golden eyes were on me.

We faced each other for some time. Normally I would close my eyes and be out in seconds, but tonight I wasn’t tired like I normally was. Or rather, I was in that slap-happy state where I was physically beyond sleeping even though I desperately needed to, all because I’d drunk two energy drinks to stay up long enough to do my homework. It made my vision foggy, and it made all of the corners of Jean’s body illuminated by the light glow and blur in my room. 

“Do you ever wonder what you’ll do after high school?” I asked him, curling my fingers into the comforter.

I watched his stomach rise and fall before he said, “I just assume I won’t get there.”

“That you won’t graduate?” 

He was quiet again. He rolled onto his back so that he could stare at my ceiling. “No, I mean I assume I won’t last that long.”

I cleared my throat. A shudder crawled down my spine. “You mean you think – you think –”

“I think I’ll die,” he whispered, “Eventually. Either my dad will do it or –” He cut himself off to bite his lip. He turned his head entirely away from me.

“Or what?” I asked, shaking now and unable to fit right in my skin. 

“There’s a lot more to…to what’s going on with me than my dad, okay?” he asked, but not like he was annoyed. His voice was gentle and sympathetic, almost like I was a child, but not patronizing in the way my parents could be. 

“Like your arms?” I asked.

His brow furrowed and he turned his head my way again. “What do you mean?”

Without thinking I reached for him, then pried my arm away. “I uh…I saw you hurt your arm once. You put your cigarette out on it…and uh…well you always have little marks on your arms I just thought…”

“I didn’t know you knew that,” he whispered, but his voice wavered like a candle’s flicker that couldn’t get enough oxygen. 

I shrugged, as best I could laying on my side. “I didn’t mean to know.”  


“’S okay,” he whispered. 

Maybe because it was dark, maybe because I was drunk on my own tiredness, or maybe because he was being so vulnerable or because I was, I reached for him. I reached for one of his arms, not his hand or anything. He didn’t fight me as I angled it in the moonlight enough to see his wounds. I didn’t touch them.

“I know what you’re thinking."

“What am I thinking?”

“You’re wondering why I do it," he said. And I was, but I wouldn’t have asked him that. I shrugged again.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” I whispered. 

“You do?” he asked, and I swore, it sounded like a whimper. 

I nodded, stroking his arm with my thumb. His skin was chilled, and blue veins wired around his forearm. His knuckles and elbow were pink and chapped from winter. “Of course I do. You – You’re right, I don’t know why you do it, but I…I just think you’ve gone through enough. Your parents treat you like shit, but you’re not. You don’t deserve to be hurt. And when you hurt yourself…It’s like you think you deserve it.”  


I heard him swallow, and a noise escape his throat. I still couldn’t see his face, but his body curled closer to mine like a leaf does in frost. I didn’t let go of his arm. 

“My parents don’t even notice,” he whispered. I nodded at him. I didn’t honestly think mine would either. I knew that wasn’t why he did it. There were other, easier ways to get attention than that. But it didn’t help any that no one noticed, that no one cared enough to realize that he was hurting. 

“Don’t do it,” I whispered, “Whatever…whatever makes you do it, you can do something else.” 

“My head gets so loud,” he whispered, “And everything inside of me feels wrong. And it just builds, and gets louder, and makes me feel worse, and I just…feel like I need to keep myself grounded or I’ll lose my mind.” His voice was a rasp and his words shook his whole body.

“Can’t you draw?” 

“Not the same. Doesn’t change how I look at myself.”

First I stared at him in confusion, because I couldn’t imagine him having a problem with his looks. But maybe it was more than that too, I decided.

When I looked in the mirror – right before giving myself the why-I-didn’t-have-a-girlfriend speech – I didn’t always see me. Sometimes I saw what others saw. Sometimes I looked in the mirror and saw a beaner, a faggot, or an orphan. But most times, I just saw a loner. 

Mirrors had forced me to confront a lot more in my life than uneven stubble and acne. Mirrors reminded me of who I was, but mostly who I was supposed to be but wasn’t. 

I never looked in the mirror and saw what I wanted others to see. 

I couldn’t even imagine what Jean saw when he looked in the mirror. Did he see the Jean I knew from school? Or the Jean I knew from the other half of the bed? Did he see someone he hadn’t introduced me to yet? Perhaps, the Jean he wrote about in his journal? Whatever it was he saw, it made him hurt himself, and I couldn’t have that. He needed to see something else. 

I sat up in the bed. “Where are you going?” 

“Be right back,” I said, as I fumbled around in the darkness for my backpack. My fingers groped for a zipper, and eventually after some cursing and sighing my hand found a red Sharpie. I crawled back into the bed next to him, and angled his arm towards the moonlight again.

“Whenever you feel like hurting yourself,” I said, and uncapped the marker, “don’t, first of all.”

He sat up on one elbow in the bed so that he could watch what I was doing. His eyes zeroed in on my fingers and followed their path as I held the marker tight. The tip glided across his arm, surrounding the charcoaled spots of his skin. I wasn’t an artist, and this would look like shit, but it’d get my point across.

“Then, grab a marker, and do this.”

I pulled the marker away from his arm so what I had drawn was no longer casted in the shadows. I’d drawn pedals surrounding the perfect circles the butts of his cigarettes had left on his arm. They weren’t any specific flower, because I was inept at drawing, but at least it was obvious they were flowers. 

“I’m going to have to borrow a long-sleeved shirt tomorrow,” is all he said, as I capped the marker and tossed it on the floor somewhere in the darkness. I wondered if he was angry with me. 

But his other hand trailed up and down his arm, and then traced the red curls and points I’d made. His eyes were wide as he kept running his fingers over them like I had run my fingers over his handwriting in our airplanes. 

“You can."

“My dad would – If he saw –” he started.

“You can wash it off right away tomorrow. Sorry I didn’t ask before –”

“Don’t be,” he said, “I could have stopped you.” And he could have, I knew. 

He finally let his arm fall, and he curled back into the sheets. But he curled into my side, much closer than he had in a while, and I dared to put my arm around him again. He let me. I wondered why he let me. I wondered when he was last hugged, and then I thought…

To fuck with it, Jean. If no one else will hold you, I will. More for me. 

And I wrapped both of my arms around him.

His fingers curled into my T-shirt. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What do you think you’ll do?”

Make sure you survive, probably. “I don’t know. I’m supposed to know. Everyone keeps telling me, but I don’t know.”

“Will you leave?” he asked.

“I want to." But, not without you. 

But he couldn’t leave, and I knew that. He was a year younger. I’d graduate before him. If I left, he couldn’t come with. 

I had finally found my anchor. Everyone in superior had one. Everyone here was stuck in place, never moving forward, never seeing time pass or days change. Time swerved around Superior, and left all of us just swaying in limbo. Life never happened to anyone here and existing wasn’t enough. 

“But you won’t?” he asked, pulling me out of my trance, “You won’t leave, will you?”

I sighed. My arms curled tightly around him, and my fingers began threading through his hair. I felt his breath against my collarbones and his heart beat lull into an easy rhythm. “No one ever leaves Superior, Jean.”

And with him, I wondered if I might be able to make myself stay.

Jean had brought something to Superior that had always been missing. My life felt like it had purpose each day. The time no longer blended together. Superior was no longer one enveloping smudge of pine trees and crumbling houses with ashy chimneys. The air was crisp, and I could feel it gliding around me like it had a place to go, like it might sweep me away with it at any opportunity. The ground had never felt so sturdy and endless under my feet.

I wouldn’t have thought Superior could feel like this, only all the other places I dreamed of going. But now I thought it had nothing to do with Superior at all. Wherever Jean was, this energy followed. This charged, electric spark in the air turned my fingers into live wires and Jean was the battery. 

If I left, whatever he’d brought to Superior, wouldn’t come with me and I wasn’t sure I could live without it. 

…

December 15, 2014

Last night I went to Mikasa’s to study for finals and shit. 

And I’m not really sure how to say it, or where to start, but apparently she already knows about my arms.

What else does she know about me? Scares the shit out of me and somehow I still want her to know everything. I just don’t know how to tell her. 

I can’t be sure if she knows more, but I know she must be okay with everything she does know. She’s trying to help me be okay with it too. I don’t know if I can be, but I want to try. The last thing I could handle is letting her down. 

She held me in her arms again last night, and this morning I woke up in them. I stayed in bed with her this time though. I didn’t want to get ready for school yet. 

So I ran my fingers through her hair, over her cheek and down her neck. She even looks angry in her sleep, for Christ’s sake. 

Then I went to school and wondered if anyone noticed I was wearing her brother’s shirt, because she’d spilled tea on mine the night before. I could have changed into one of mine when I got home, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to see her brother’s face when I walked into math class.

Eren and I already fight in math so much. He can’t hardly stand me. I’m surprised he didn’t hit me when he saw me wearing one of his shirts, he was so pissed. 

I didn’t care though because Mikasa couldn’t stop smiling and blushing. 

…

I can’t stop smiling and blushing. I came home from school today and both my parents asked me if I was feeling okay. I told them I was just happy one of my finals was over. 

Mikasa arched an eyebrow at me, and Armin, standing close guard behind her, looked at me like he was God and he’d orchestrated the whole event himself. 

“Is this about Jean?” Mikasa asked, when we were in the hallway and neither of my parents were in hearing range.

“What?” I choked. I knew my sister knew shit was going on. Her bedroom was across from mine, unlike my parents’ room which was on the first floor. Jean could feasibly jump over to our roof if the dryer, dishwasher, or TV was on without being heard, but Mikasa could hear talking from my bedroom as easily as I could hear music coming from hers. 

“Jean wore your shirt to school today,” she said. “What was that about?”

“Nothing,” I said. Her eyes narrowed. 

I grinned. The corners of my mouth hurt like I’d stuck a smile shaped cookie cutter between my lips, I’d been grinning so much.

Mikasa shook her head, but then she smiled too. “Whatever.”

She and Armin both turned around and headed into her bedroom.

When I walked into mine, the first thing I did was tear out a piece of paper from one of my note books.

I wrote:

Jean,  
You shithead, give me my shirt back.  
–Eren

I folded it up into a paper airplane and it flew over to his rooftop. I didn’t know when he’d see it, but I knew I wouldn’t have to wait long before he responded. He’d wait until it was dinner time here, or a little after, so that my parents would be busy and everything in my house would be loud before he jumped over and came in my room. I just couldn’t resist talking to him now. 

While I did my homework – 

Okay, while I pretended to do my homework on my bed so that if he looked out his window he wouldn’t realize I was spying on him –

I thought about math class today. He had asked me to borrow a shirt, but now I couldn’t understand why he would have done that. What were the odds his parents would have seen his arm in the time it took him to change in his bedroom? He could have gone home in his T-shirt and pulled out a hoodie as soon as he climbed into his room. And then he wore it to school. Was he just fucking with me? 

God…are _you_ just fucking with me? 

While I was contemplating the possibility that God was punking me, I heard something clunk against my window. I flung myself out of bed and leaped for my window just in time to see his shit-eating grin and some more of his shirtlessness. Before I could recover and remember my name and how to count again, he gave me mercy and let his blinds drop shut. 

My head dropped to see that my shirt was slumped on my roof shingles. I picked it up and shut my window. Then my mom called me down for dinner.

But I still had to sit on my bed for a minute or two focusing very pointedly on a math problem I hadn’t finished – Okay, all twenty five of the math problems I hadn’t finished in class today – because I’d been so distracted the whole hour by how my shirt was a little too tight on him. 

Finally, when my body was bored again, I headed downstairs to eat. 

…

Thursday night, Jean and I were in my room again. We both just had one more final before Christmas break. Neither of us were focusing and we were both so tired our face might fall off our heads.

Jean leaned back into my headboard, tapping his pencil against his leg.

“All I need on this final to pass the class is sixty four percent,” he said, staring at his textbook like he was wondering how far he could throw it out the window. “I could probably just guess on everything and do that well.”

“How do you know you need sixty four percent?” I asked. I was lying next to him, on my stomach. Mikasa was playing music in her room, and I could hear Armin giggle about something. Mom and dad were downstairs watching TV. The voices of the FOX news anchors were wafting up through my vents and polluting the air I breathe.

Jean looked at me like he was amused by my confusion. “I looked at all my other grades and did the math.”

“Of course you did,” I spit. “Why do you get to be good at everything? You write, draw, _and_ you’re good at math? What the hell? Why was I jibbed? I don’t even know if I’ll pass.”

He chuckled, running his fingers through his hair. I hated how his stupid body just…just molded to the shape of my bed. He looked like a Goddamn jaguar sprawled out and tense, with hazel eyes molten and so hot that he was making me –

“You’ll pass math,” he said, interrupting my internal twenty-four-seven broadcast of this-is-why-I-have-to-lay-on-my-stomach. He smirked at me and added, “You’re at least good at cheating.”

“Oh, shut up,” I groaned, shoving my face into my mattress and pushing my health textbook off the bed. I thought I’d probably learned enough about herpes for now anyway. Actually I’d learned enough for the rest of my life. Jean tossed his on the floor too, and then scooted onto his stomach, facing me. My whole body heated up. 

“So,” he said, “Who throws the end of the semester party around here?”

“The what?”

“Ya’ know, what does everyone do once finals are over?” 

I sighed, and rubbed the back of my neck. “Well, mostly they go to The Point.”

“The what?” 

“The Point. It’s uh…it’s a beach on Superior lake. And everyone goes there really late and they all have a bonfire and get drunk and fuck on the beach and shit.” I squirmed in the bed, trying to find any way to lay comfortably, but knew I wouldn’t. It wasn’t that my body couldn’t get comfortable, it was that my head couldn’t. “But that kind of shit happens all the time. Not just at the end of the semester.”

“But…you don’t go and get drunk and fuck on the beach.” It was a statement, not a question. 

I faced him, and then almost immediately looked away because I was blushing too badly, for once not just because of his good looks. I never went. I didn’t have anyone to go with. Oh, I could tag along with Mikasa all night like a pet dog, but I wouldn’t put myself through that. 

“Why not?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Just not my thing…like getting sand in my asscrack and everything.”

He laughed and muffled it into his arm. There were still faint, pink lines tinting his skin.

“Well, what do _you_ do then?”

“I don’t know, why? Aren’t you going to go to The Point?”

He bit his lip, and looked away from me. “Well uh… I would, but not without you.”

“How come?” I asked.

“Just, wouldn’t be fun,” he replied. He shrugged as he looked away from me. 

“Getting drunk and laid doesn’t sound fun to you?” 

He cleared his throat, and then pulled a pillow underneath his chin, hiding part of his face. “Well yeah, obviously it does, but I just wouldn’t want to go without you.”

I swallowed, unable to breathe for a second as I tried really hard not to take that wrong. He was probably like me, just didn’t want to show up to a party without anyone he knew he could talk to. He needed a wingman, that was all. It wasn’t like he needed me in order to uh….in order to participate in any of those activities or anything.

But he had so many friends. Why did it have to be me then?

“Eren?” he asked, and I swore his voice squeaked, but it was muffled by the pillow.

“Uh sorry…what – what were we talking about?”

“What you do when the semester ends." 

I paused, contemplating whether or not to bring it up to him. There was one thing I did, not just at the end of the year, but whenever I had time. This semester, because I’d met him, I’d only gone once or twice, but I was dying to go again. The thought of bringing him with me...I didn’t know if I wanted to. It was kind of… _my thing_. He had his journal, and I had…had whatever it was I would call it, I guess.

“I could uh…I could show you,” I said, deciding the idea of seeing him outside of school and my bedroom was too tempting to pass up. 

“What is it?” 

I smiled. “Can’t tell you.”

“Why not?” he snapped. So I can see your stubborn, grumpy, temper tantrum, of course.

“You’ll see, okay? I’ll show you this weekend.”

“When?” 

“Early. Like…before-the-sun-rises early, if you can deal with that.” From what I’d observed throughout the duration of my career as his stalker, he rarely was up before noon on weekends. He was also impressively grumpy in math every morning of the week, making it a little too easy to screw with him. 

He rolled his eyes at my challenge, as he sat up in the bed. “Of course I can.”

…

“Christ! It’s too fucking cold for this,” Jean complained…again.

This morning, I’d thrown over a dozen things at his window before he finally slid it open, shirtless and Glorious, and absolutely livid. “Fucking _what_ , you _fucking_ asshole?”

Now we had walked all the way through most the neighborhood and he was still complaining about it. I was still grinning about it. 

Almost everything in Superior was – in theory – walking distance away, even though Jean and I lived on the outskirts of Superior. When Jean had finally gotten dressed – I had reminded him to wear multiple layers – he had given me a really confused expression when we hadn’t started walking towards town. 

But he must not have been in the mood to argue either. He lit a cigarette as we walked. Ribbons of smoke and puffs of his breath wafted in the air, clouding the night sky. The stars – unlike in the few big cities I’d been to – were not hidden behind the veil of artificial city lights. The stars spread across the sky like millions of diamonds strewn on royal blue velvet, because all Superior had were lampposts that shined so blindingly that there were halos of white light surrounding the bulbs. Like huge, incandescent dandy-lions. We walked underneath them, along the sidewalk, and Jean would wince each time the light flashed across his golden eyes. 

It was surreal, having him by my side. He didn’t know it, but this was something I only ever did alone. My family didn’t even know I did this. This was _supposed_ to be the only thing I loved about Superior. 

Every winter I would wait for the weekend days when I could wake up before the sun and head there. This early in the morning, the clusters of pine trees, the glittering snow, and the horizon line were all for me. 

Everything at this time of the morning was so still, so silent, because everyone was in their homes dreaming. I was the only one out, experiencing the wind nipping at my nose and ruffling the bangs peeking out from beneath my hat. I swore, that this was the only time I was ever truly alive. I could breathe the sky right into my lungs. If I could just sit still, I’d be able to feel the Earth’s heartbeat in the soles of my feet. 

But having Jean there made it difficult to imagine ever doing it alone again. Instead of one pair of footsteps crunching in the snow, there were two and they fell in and out of a rhythm together. The smoke from his cigarette felt like it should have always been there. 

When we reached the railroads, Jean quirked an eyebrow at me and cocked his head. Crossing the tracks signified leaving Superior. The railroads were close enough to our homes that the train’s horn could always be heard and the rattling of the ground could be felt upstairs. The trains came through six times a day, twice at night, and constantly woke the weak. But I’d been here all my life, and I slept right through the lullaby now. 

“We’re leaving Superior? How far are you making me walk?” he asked. The sound of his voice was like static, because he was so sleepy and because it was the kind of cold outside when the wind was so harsh it clung to my skin, wrapping around my head like a plastic bag, and cutting my air supply off like one too. It wouldn’t be as bad in the trees though, I hoped anyway, or all of this would have been for nothing. 

“No, it’s right here,” I said, gesturing to the trees. Superior’s town was clustered with trees, but even more so than that, it was completely surrounded by them for miles. All the way from Duluth to the lake, the pine trees – not like Christmas pine trees, these ones looked like they knew the clouds personally – cropped up on every spare space of land. 

“You woke me up this early to show me trees that would be here at noon?”

I laughed. “No, just shut up would you? We can’t do this if you’re going to be loud.”

“You still haven’t told me what we’re doing,” he groaned.

“Shhhh-ut up,” I repeated, as we crossed the gravel road just beyond the rail roads. There was a path I’d been leaving there for years. The last time I was here was so long ago that even my tracks had been snowed over. We began trudging through the snow in between the branches and needles of the pines. 

Once in the trees, I told Jean to put out his cigarette. He groaned, but did as I asked, throwing what was left of it over his shoulder. We had to take a roundabout path surrounding a valley. I knew these woods well, I knew the animals well, and I knew where I could walk without them finding us. 

Jean’s feet were clumsy in the snow though, and he kept cursing under his breath. I sighed and shushed him again. He glared at me in response. 

Once we were at the bottom of the hill, I knew we were almost there. I guided Jean further until we reached a small clearing, and we stood near the trunk of a particularly fat pine tree, ducking underneath the heavy branches so we wouldn’t be jabbed by the bristles. 

During the summer, this clearing would be a pond, but in the winter it froze right to the earth. A truck could be driven over it and it would not crack. The snow was piled high on top of it, almost undisturbed by wind that couldn’t quite weave through the trees and sweep it out. 

Almost undisturbed. 

I pointed toward the center of the clearing so that Jean could see why I had brought him here. We’d gotten here just in time for the sun to level with the trees. The rays of gold beamed between the trees in long horizontal runways dusted with gold particles that fluttered in the breeze, making the snow sparkle and blur the corners of my vision. The sky bled from purples to swirling clouds of pinks and oranges, all of it being poked and prodded by the needle tips of the pine trees along the horizon. This place was magic, and it was just for me. And now, Jean too. 

In the center of the clearing, that was actually the pond covered in snow, I had laid out piles of corn. Surrounding those piles of corn, were tiny, craters. The nearest pile of corn was just a few feet away. 

“You brought me here to show me corn?” he asked, but oh, he was breathless. I could hear it in his voice, he felt it too. He felt the way I did, like gravity might cease to exist if I stepped out onto that plain of snow, and I might float right out of this Godforsaken town. 

I shushed him as I reached into my coat pocket for my camera. I flipped it open and began filming the sunrise. 

The wind – as if it knew I had believed in it – had left this place in peace. With a little luck, Jean shutting his mouth, and us staying downhill, I couldn’t have asked for a more ideal setting.

“Just you wait,” I told him. 

And we did. We were waiting for a long time. I was used to it, but he wasn’t, and he sighed more than once. But I didn’t give a damn, since he bothered to get up early, and follow me out here into the snow. He wanted to see this as bad as I did. And he wasn’t a polite enough person to stay in order to avoid hurting my feelings. If he didn’t want to be here, he’d walk home without me. But he stayed, and I had to keep reeling in my smile.

Sigh all you want Jean. I’m fucking on to you. 

At around seven AM, I finally heard it, and my body went rigid. Jean noticed, and his eyes began scanning the tree line. The bushes and baby pine trees across the clearing from us were rustling. The wind was absent, thankfully, but I was so paranoid that I even held my breath, in fear of scaring it away.

A white-tailed doe – one I vaguely recognized from my past visits – wandered into the clearing, leaving tiny tracks behind her. Then came her fawn wobbling out into the clearing too. 

Jean’s eyes widened, and then his head slowly turned to face me. It was so silent that I heard his breath leave his lungs. I placed my finger against my lips so that he would be quiet. If they caught our scent, heard us, or saw us hiding in the branches, they’d bolt. 

The mother doe and her fawn meandered toward the corn, and began eating it. Then another deer came, a seven point buck that must’ve been in a fight at some point, because his antlers were uneven and broken. His eye was scarred. 

Throughout the morning, as the sun rose, fading the pink sky into crystal blue, and the snow melted into our boots, we watched the deer come and go. Some of them laid in the snow. The bucks bumped horns, and the fawns stumbled in snowbanks almost as tall as them. 

If one of us jostled a branch, the snow, or our coats, if the wind was strong enough to carry our smell, all of them would freeze like they’d been paused, and then all at once frolic out of sight. A half hour later, there would be a new one prancing into the clearing, and then another, and then another. The way they could bound across the clearing and sprinkle snow into the air behind them, I thought it was the only sight in the world I would say looked like music if music weren’t a sound. 

Most of them I recognized. Most of the bucks I had named, although I couldn’t distinguish as easily between the does. I began to memorize the white-speckled coats of the fawns. 

At one point, a fawn waddled on pin legs toward the corn closest to us. I heard breath leave Jean’s lungs again, and a grin spread across his face. Our eyes met, and the sun casted through the branches in just the right way to turn his eyes into suns themselves. That fawn, innocent and unsupervised, stepped toward the both of us. This fawn had not learned to be afraid of humans yet, as it wasn’t legal to hunt in this area and this was probably the first time it had ever seen one of us. 

Tentatively, I leaned forward, reaching my hand out so slowly the air could have been as thick as glue. 

The fawn poked its moist noise against my fingers. Its prickly coat scratched my skin. It turned its head, and faced Jean, coming so close to him they were almost nose to nose.

The fawn inhaled, its deep, puddles for eyes widened, and it dashed to the other side of the clearing in seconds, kicking snow up into our faces as it did. 

“Fucking hell,” Jean cursed, wiping his face and flicking it off his jacket. I started laughing at him. Any deer that were there snorted, and sprinted out of the clearing too. “So this is what you do? Instead of fucking on the beach?”

I stood then, flipping my camera shut and putting it back in my pocket, knowing that it was late enough in the day and enough of the corn had been eaten that there probably wouldn’t be any more deer. I shrugged at him. “Yeah, I guess. I don’t know, I just like them. I like them more than people.”

Jean smiled. It was a smile of his I’d never seen before, and I realized it was the smile I’d been waiting for, and I didn’t even have to wait my entire life. This smile was broad, and pure, like it had never seen anything in the world that was ugly and it crinkled his eyes up in the most beautiful, angelic way I could imagine. He absolutely glowed with it, turning barren winter surrounding us into a radiating spring that made warmth rise in my chest. 

“Well, I think I like them more than people, too,” he breathed, looking back at the clearing as if he could still see the deer. I was beginning to wonder how I had kept my eyes on the deer all morning instead of him. “I mean…like – like not more than you, or whatever. I guess. But like…more than all the other shitty people at school and…and at home, and everything.” He was still smiling, carelessly, too. He didn’t mind that he was smiling. He might not have even realized that he was. 

I thought about how Jean always wore a mask, but not just any mask. He wore a papier-mâché mask, with layers upon layers of paper pasted over it. Each layer was a different Jean. At school he was popular, he was an asshole that called weird kids like me a faggot, at home he shed a few of those layers until he was just a defensive, grumpy kid that liked to read and draw, and in my bed he shed a few more until he was scared, defenseless clutching onto my shirt as I wrapped my arms around him.

However many layers of paper covered the mask, he still always wore a mask, until this moment. This was the real Jean. This was the Jean that wrote on the pages of his journal. I was seeing the Jean God saw, what Jean was like when no one else was around. No one had met this mask-less Jean except me. I couldn’t tell if he’d purposely done it, or if he’d felt comfortable enough around me to accidentally slip out of it, but I was grateful nonetheless.

I cradled this moment in my hands like candlelight, cupping my fingers around it, so that the wind couldn’t carelessly blow it out. 

God, I never get to thank you for much. But thank you. Thank you for Jean. 

He ran his fingers through his hair, and then over his neck, blushing. We’d been quiet for a couple of moments, nothing but the sounds of our breath and the rattling of branches. I could feel my heartbeat in my ears, and the tips of my fingers and toes. I was pretty sure I looked like a dumbass, because he said, “What are you looking at me like that for? Quit it. What’s wrong with you?”

The longer we stood there, the warmer my body was. “Nothing…uh sorry. So, it was uh…it was worth coming out here so early then?”

He paused, his eyes searching mine as he bit his lip. He looked away as he nodded. “Yeah, it was worth it.”

We began walking back together, following the two sets of tracks that interlaced in the snow, becoming one. His body was warm next to mine, and he stood closer than he had last time. Twice he brushed against me, and I felt that calloused, graphite-covered, artist’s hand bump into my own and electrocute me on the way home. 

Once there, he told me he had to go back to his place. He had to be in his bed when his parents woke. In all the times Jean and I had hung out, and in all the times he’d woken in my bed and left, he’d never sounded so guilty for leaving. He had never explained why he must leave before, or even acted as if that would be the only reason he’d go.

But now I felt that. I felt like the only reason he was leaving me was because he had to, or he wouldn’t.

Before stepping into the front door of his house, he looked over his shoulder at me where I was standing in my front yard, and grinned again like that grin was his gift to me. 

I thought that it was the best gift he could’ve ever given me.

…

December 20, 2014

I keep waiting to find a reason to hate her, or for her to find a reason to hate me, but it doesn’t happen. Mikasa took me somewhere today that I would have hated with anyone else. She showed me something that I would have never bothered to give a damn about. Something only she would ever bother to care about, and I just don’t understand how someone like her can even

She makes me care about stuff I’ve

And I almost believe that with her I might stop caring so much about what

The more I know her, the more 

I don’t know how to write this.

My hands are shaking as I write. I’ve never cried from happiness before. 

All I can say for sure, without screwing it up and writing it wrong, without ruining it in my head or making it sound stupid, is that I don’t want this to stop. I’m afraid it will. My dad loved my mom and me once. He was in love once. What happened to him? I can’t let it happen to me. I can’t fuck this up.

It’s the only thing I’ve ever had in my life worth fighting for.


	5. Spelled Out on Paper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter Eren and Mikasa get interrogated on Christmas, Jean gives Eren something for Christmas no one else could have thought of, and they both take a trip to another world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll just say this ahead of time to make it easier for everyone, Jean has two journals. Pay attention to the dates. Pay attention to whose name he uses and what he says closely.

December 24, 2014

I’m sitting in my closet. Are you shitting me? I’m literally in the Goddamn closet.

Mom left today. Every year she pretends Christmas isn’t happening until it IS happening and then she goes and buys gifts we can’t afford and aren’t worth having anyway. 

But she came home with a bag of books. One of them is a Spanish dictionary. I suppose the other two I can read, even if they’re for middle schoolers. She doesn’t know I saw them. She hid them, but I don’t know if she realizes that I’m too old to not be able to see on top of the fridge anymore. 

She was crying, and a little drunk, and giving my dad shit for being a piece of shit. For not giving us a Christmas. For not going to work the week before this or working any overtime. For not helping her with me, whatever that means. I help my mom more than she helps me. 

I kept warning her he was drunk too. I kept telling her to stop talking. She wouldn’t. 

And my dad hit her. And then he looked at me and he was like, “Do you need help, son?”

I tried running and didn’t make it. He didn’t really choke me. He just sort of gripped onto my neck so that he could shove my head into the wall.

I’m bleeding because the edge of a picture frame cut into my head. Now I have a head ache and my neck feels like I slept with it twisted all the way around or something. If I try to turn my head to the left or right, it either hurts like hell or I just fucking can’t move it. I don’t know how I’m going to sleep tonight. 

I had to write this in this journal, although I’m trying to stay away from it. 

Eren threw a paper airplane on the roof. I grabbed it when he wasn’t looking. He invited me over and I didn’t come. I couldn’t face him today and try to pretend everything at home is fine. I know he knows it’s not, but sometimes I can make him forget.

…

December 24, 2014 

Dad always makes Christmas suck, but at least my mom fucking tries. Almost everything in this house is done by her. I don’t know how she does it. I don’t know how she can put up with my dad and take care of me at the same time. 

She got me more books, I think. Whatever they are, I’m going to be spending the last few days of my break reading them in my room. She didn’t have to do that, and she probably shouldn’t have, but I’m glad she did.

I wish I could get her something. I’m drawing her a picture of me when I was little. The photo had coffee or something spilled on it at some point, so I guess I’m just trying to fix it. 

Dad got really pissed when mom tried to stand up for us, of course. He pushed me into the wall, but it didn’t do much damage. 

I think today was the worst of it. Tomorrow will be better. Dad will be way too drunk to ruin anything. So I’ll probably just hang out with mom all day, and watch movies in her room like we did last year. Maybe I’ll get to see Mikasa too. 

… 

In the morning, Jean still hadn’t sent an airplane my way. What a fantastic way to start Christmas morning. The only thing I had wanted for Christmas – an entirely plausible, realistic, affordable thing by the way – was a Goddamn paper airplane on my roof, and I didn’t get it.

I shook my head as I got dressed, before heading downstairs. My family was already up. They had stopped waking me up Christmas morning a year ago when they realized starting off Christmas morning by waking me up with morning wood and me telling them to fuck off was not very Christianly.

Mom was making French toast, which at least sort of kind of cheered me up. The whole house smelled like cinnamon and nutmeg. 

My dad and sister were sitting on the couch. It didn’t matter what day it was, or how early, my dad was always ready for a surprise wedding, job interview or funeral. He usually wore some sort of suit jacket or sweater vest with a tie. I often pictured him with a monocle and a top hat. 

Mikasa was watching some Christmas show on Lifetime, probably something my mom had chosen, because the second I stepped into the living room she sighed in relief and reached for the remote to turn the tv off. She was still in her pajamas, plaid flannels and a gigantic hoodie I didn’t recognize. 

“Who’s sweatshirt is that?” I asked, pointing at it.

Her eyes hardened. “Yours.”

My brow furrowed, and my dad perked his head up from his book. “Is it?”

Mikasa stared pointedly at me. 

“Uh, yeah,” I said. “That’s mine.”

It wasn’t though. The hoodie read University of Duluth and I knew that I had never been there in my entire life. I wasn’t even considering looking at colleges until I was in Mikasa’s grade. I was fairly certain that she hadn’t started looking either, despite my parents constantly asking her to.

My dad examined the sweatshirt. Mikasa blushed, and tucked her nose underneath it, looking away from my dad out the window. 

“Have you considered Duluth?” my dad asked. My mom, who had been humming some gospel song I couldn’t place, stepped out of the kitchen and leaned against the wall. My mom always looked like an elf on Christmas, and the worst part was she didn’t even try. She wore an apron and a Christmas sweater with leggings I thought probably belonged to Mikasa and shouldn’t be worn by adults. She wore fuzzy red and white striped socks up to her knees, and her black hair was tied into a braid hanging over her shoulder laced with tinsel. 

“Duluth! Eren, you didn’t tell me you want to go to Duluth!” she chirped. “Oh – You and Mikasa could go together!”

“Should we uh…like open gifts?” Mikasa asked, staring at our Christmas tree in the corner like she wished she could hide in it. 

“Do you know how much tuition is?” dad asked.

“You wouldn’t even have to move out!” mom cried.

“Dorms are so expensive anyway,” my dad added.

“Mom…is the French toast burning?” Mikasa asked.

“Have you considered a major?” mom asked.

“If you’re considering science or math, Eren, we really need to get you into some upper level courses next semester. Maybe you could be in a class with Arianne?”

Mikasa cringed and sunk further into her hoodie. I kind of wished I’d put on something I could drown in too. 

“Oh yes, she would be able to help you so much.” My mom was smiling, nodding, waving a spatula around, and looking like she might float away into Neverland. 

“Is Arianne going to Duluth, Mikasa?” dad asked, turning his head toward Mikasa. She looked at me, her eyes becoming slits that cut right into me. 

Oh. Oh, shit. The sweatshirt belonged to Armin. 

My bad, Mikasa.

“We should really see if there’s a tour we could take –”

“Mom!” Mikasa, yelled, “The French toast? It’s burning.”

“I just put it in the –”

“Definitely smell something burning,” I added. 

My mom cocked her head to the side, sniffing the air, and then shrugged. She stepped back into the kitchen to take care of the non-existent burning smell.

After that, Mikasa and I made it through the morning with minimal damage. My mom was a little too caught up in trying to make our Christmas better than the Lifetime channel’s Christmas, and I couldn’t say she did a shitty job. I went back for seconds and thirds of my mom’s French toast, and hung out with Mikasa in the living room after opening gifts.

My parents got my sister new clothes. Some of which, I knew were too girly for her, and some of it, surprisingly athletic and sporty enough for her to be at least caught dead in. I had gotten her a red scarf – I got her some variation of a red scarf every year, and she became increasingly less amused every year – because when we first met as kids, and my parents first took her in, I’d given her mine to comfort her. Underneath the scarf in the box I’d given her a card with a twenty dollar bill.

She hadn’t gotten me anything, but she never did. Instead, she would just buy me a pizza on whatever random night I didn’t want to eat mom’s cooking.

My parents had gotten me a couple dozen comics, a few movies, and some sturdy boots I’d be able to wear out into the woods, but I’d told them a month ago that I didn’t want as much this year. I wanted to have some cash to spend. They had asked me why I couldn’t just tell them what I wanted, and I considered whether they’d rather hear me tell them I had begun smoking pot recreationally or that I wanted to buy the neighbor boy – the one I totally didn’t have feelings for – a Christmas gift. 

When I didn’t answer my mom’s question, she let it slide and gave me some money to do what I wanted with. It had taken me a while, but I’d figured it out.

And finally I had finished my shift. I’d spent enough time with them on Christmas to safely retreat to my bedroom without interrogation. I hugged both my parents, thanked them for the gifts, and said merry Christmas before dashing up the stairs to safety.

…

By the end of the night, I was fighting with myself to throw another paper airplane. I’d sat on my bed all day, debating how I could possibly justify forcing him to talk to me on Christmas day. I had assumed that his family didn’t do anything, but for all I knew he wasn’t even home. Maybe his family actually had shit to do. Maybe he just didn’t want to talk to me. Maybe he hated me. He probably hated me. 

I started to get ready for bed. I shaved, brushed my teeth, got undressed, and turned off my light, all while considering how likely it was Jean had hung out with me as a joke or something. 

But something clanked against my window, and I damn near leapt out of it as I slid it open.

There Jean was, standing on his roof, arching an eyebrow at me. “Trying to show off your legs, Jaeger?”

My eyes widened and all the blood in my body blanketed my face as I looked down and I remembered I was in my boxers. He’d seen me in my boxers before, a couple of times, but he’d certainly never commented on it before. 

“Shut up,” I snapped, my voice squeaking and giving me away, “Are you coming over or what?”

He grinned and leapt over onto my roof. As he slid inside my room he said, “Sorry, about uh…not talking earlier, or whatever. My mom would have noticed I was gone.”

My blush was so hot I could feel my heartbeat in my cheeks. Of course. Obviously. Why didn’t I think of that? God, why didn’t you remind me?

Then I realized that yet again, he was apologizing for not being able to see me, and I considered that my face might never be brown again. 

“Are you okay?” Jean asked.

“Huh? Uh…oh…uh yeah,” I replied, shrugging and pretending I had any composure at all. “Did you uh…just want to spend the night?”

I sat down on my bed. The room was dark, but the moon was bright and it was snowing outside, leaving speckled shadows trailing down my walls and across Jean’s face. He smiled.

“Actually uh…first can you turn on the light?” 

I stood to turn on the light. I wanted more than anything to pull out the gift I got him, but I was suddenly too nervous. Guys didn’t get each other Christmas gifts. Getting him a gift had been a bad idea, it made me look too obvious. He’d know that I wasn’t just…wasn’t just his bro, or whatever. Or at least, that I didn’t want to just be his bro.

When I turned around, Jean was taking off the coat I’d given him and pulling something out of the sleeve. It was a long, rolled up piece of paper. “Didn’t want the snow to touch it,” he explained, “So, now it’s kinda bent funny, sorry.”

“What’s bent kinda funny?” I asked.

“Your Christmas gift, idiot,” he said, grinning. “Here.”

I took the coiled up piece of paper – firm, long, not like printing paper – and began unravelling it. Jean sat on the bed leaning back on his elbows. It was hard to read his expression. It was cocky, but stiff, like he’d glued it on that way. There was a flicker in his eyes that made him seem nervous, but a sparkle in them that made him seem proud. 

I laid the paper flat on the bed, and let the air in my lungs seep right out of me. He’d drawn them.

It wasn’t the clearing exactly, but it was something similar. Layers of trees, some of them pines, some of them birches, and weaving through those trees over a dozen of the deer. He’d even drawn their white tails, the fawn’s speckled coats and the buck’s antlers. The does laid down, keeping watchful eyes on the fawns. All the antlers were different, some of them astonishingly similar to the deer I had become acquainted with in the clearing. Each deer was drawn right down to the texture of their fur, and the glint in their eyes. My fingers trailed along the curve of the sketchbook paper, but didn’t dare wander through the graphite, for I couldn’t bear the thought of smearing the existence of these creatures – so alive in the paper they could have been real – away.

Jean cleared his throat. “I didn’t know if I got them right. I couldn’t go back and couldn’t…use pictures for a reference or anything so I hope they’re –”

“They’re perfect. You know they’re perfect, you have to. They’re – there’s no other way to look at them,” I blurted. “I – I can’t believe you drew this for me.”

“You like it?” he asked, grinning.

I nodded, staring at the paper with wide eyes. 

He shrugged, and his arms wobbled with the nerves he was struggling to hide. “I couldn’t uh…buy you anything so…”

I shook my head. I wanted to tell him so much more. I wanted to tell him that I’d been going to that clearing for years and my parents had never even noticed. I wanted to tell him that I’d seen some of the does and bucks have fawns, and had seen those fawns grow up and have fawns themselves. Some of them were so familiar with me that they didn’t think anything of my sent. Some of them relied on me – expected me – to bring them corn in the winter. I knew those deer better than I knew any one human being. And he honestly thought he could have bought something better? Something I’d prefer to own? Never.

“Thank you,” I choked, instead. My fingers trembled as they rolled it up again. I didn’t know where to place it at first, but I stored it on the top shelf of my closet, where I knew no one would find it or have a reason to go to. 

I was about to step out, when the overhead light glared across the plastic case of Jean’s gift sitting on the floor, and I remembered my gay existential crisis from a moment ago. Buying gifts for friends was gay, right? 

For a moment I let myself fantasize that this was true and considered that Jean had gotten me a gift. 

I know you’re fucking with me, God. I fucking know it, and I for one don’t think it’s fair you always pick me.

I picked up Jean’s gift and stepped out. I hadn’t wrapped it or anything, so before I could even explain Jean sprung up from his sitting position to get a better look. “Those…those are fucking professional. They had – how much did you spend on them?”

I gripped the plastic box encasing the one hundred colored pencils I’d ordered online for him. I didn’t want to answer his question, I didn’t want to tell him that I’d spent a hundred dollars on colored pencils for him that he drew perfectly fine without. I couldn’t imagine that his drawing could possibly get better.

“Just take them,” I said, shoving them into his chest. 

His hands glided over the box, and his eyes scanned each pencil like they were strangers he wanted to get to know better. He blushed. Whenever he did that, I felt sorry for the rest of the world, because they didn’t get to see it and I didn’t know what I’d done to deserve it. 

“I wish I’d had them for your drawing,” he said.

I shrugged. “Make me other shit with them.”

He perked his head up so that his gaze could meet mine. “Yeah?”

I nodded, probably too quickly, and then rubbed the back of my neck to play it cool. 

Yeah fucking right.

Jean’s lip trembled. He opened his mouth, I assumed to say thank you, but then he closed it. He set the pencils on my night stand. When he spun back around, he hesitated as he took a step closer to me, and then pulled me into a hug. 

I shivered with the feeling of his body surrounding mine, for once touching me not because he was scared or hurt, but because he wanted to be close to me. I wrapped my arms around his waist, pulling his body close to mine, feeling his warmth heat me right to my finger tips and his smell make me dizzy. 

We held each other for too long, I knew. But I couldn’t get enough of him and he wasn’t pushing me away. 

When we finally did part, it was because he asked, “I’m tired. Can we uh…go to…?”

I nodded, and turned to flick the light off. When I looked back to him, he was tugging his shirt off. He didn’t usually do that, and I felt a tsunami of nerves wash over me and flip my stomach right over. 

The light barely caught a glimpse of his arms. His burns had rings drawn around them like planets, and he bothered to draw a sun at the base of his hand and stars in a number of different colors. 

He must have caught me staring at him, because he ran his fingers through his hair and climbed into the bed. “Quit being weird and come here.”

I did. And as I scooted in next to him, he didn’t sit stiffly at the edge of the bed like a guard rail. His limbs sprawled out, almost so that he was touching me, and he fell right to sleep. My eyes traced the patterns on his arms, his breath causing his stomach to rise and fall, and his eyes roaming beneath the lids. 

Merry Christmas, Jean. 

…

December 26, 2014

I’m writing in this journal again. I can’t help it. I know I told myself I wasn’t going to, but I gave Eren his gift and I’m going to explode if I don’t write about it. 

He fucking LOVED it. I spent hours on that thing. I’d finished mom’s drawing in one sitting, and I thought I was going to be able to finish his just as quickly, but I couldn’t. I redrew it like five times, because I thought I had gotten the deer all wrong. I thought he’d hate it, or he’d think it was lame, but he didn’t.

Holy FUCK, I’m going to be drawing the face he made when he first saw it for days.

…

On New Year’s Eve, Jean was bored again. I considered for a moment trying to explain to him that Superior was where people went when all they wanted to do with their life was take up space. 

After prom night, for example, when most people ought to be losing their virginity, people in Superior went to Walmart to get movies out of the Redbox. If they were really rambunctious they’d spray paint their initials on a tree and maybe prank phone call Pizza Hut. 

People in this town still listened to Led Zepplin, Nsync, and Eminem, but they didn’t realize he was Eminem yet, he was still Slim Shady. They listened to this, not because they thought they were fucking new-age hipster, but because they thought it was still socially appropriate to do that. 

Majority of twenty year old guys still hadn’t gotten over their bad case of pant-sagging. And girls still wore their shirts short enough to expose their midriff and what my mom fondly referred to as a tramp stamp, but I thought was more of a I-bet-that-means-anal-in-Chinese stamp. 

Twilight and the God-awful original Spiderman movies still played in the only movie theatre – five dollar movie, five theatres, five days a week – in town every Friday night.

If there was any spot in the world that was in a coma, if places could fall into comas, it was Superior. 

Tomorrow it would be 2015 everywhere in the world, but 1999 would only _just_ be hitting here. 

“Don’t people light fireworks?” he asked. I barked out a laugh.

“Yeah. Everyone comes here from Minnesota to buy fireworks because all the really crazy ones are legal here,” I replied, turning back and forth in my computer chair by kicking the desk or the bed with either leg. Jean’s eyes followed me. 

He nodded, hugging one of my pillows to his chest. He was shirtless so often now I was almost immune, but if I didn’t supervise my thoughts well enough I still ended up laying on my stomach on occasion. He didn’t seem to think anything of it. 

My home was comfortable for him now. It used to be that when one of my parents would call for me, he’d flinch. If he woke up before me, he snuck out. If I brought food up for him from dinner, he’d ask whether or not my parents had noticed. But now, it felt like he practically lived here. He left shirts here, he showered here, he drew here and he smoked here, in my windowsill. My parents didn’t notice any of it and I began to wonder if they’d notice if he moved in. Maybe they wouldn’t even notice if I moved out. 

“So, there’ll be fireworks then?” he asked.

“Mmhmm, on the Duluth bridge,” I replied. 

“That’s pretty far,” he replied, “If we can’t drive.”

Which we couldn’t, and both of us knew without suggesting it that we couldn’t ask one of our parents. I could ask mine to take me, but there was no way in hell I was introducing them to Jean. They’d go tonight, and Mikasa and Armin too, but I wouldn’t. I’d rather be with Jean than with my family in the freezing cold all night surrounded by a hundred drunk Superior natives anyway. 

“Yeah, the bridge can be cool, but my family’s going there anyway and I wouldn’t – I don’t want to go with them,” I mumbled, and he nodded. As I said the words, I remembered one other spot I could take him. I didn’t know if I want to though, because it was kind of like the clearing. I went there to clear my thoughts. To be away from other people. There wasn’t anything to _do_ there, exactly.  


Still, it was probably better than just sitting in my bedroom all day. I was nervous all the time – even though he hadn’t done this since the first few times I’d invited him over – that he would leave and go home to do something more exciting if I didn’t keep him busy. 

Jean’s eyes were closed, like he might doze off, and I was tempted to let him. My creepiness had been promoted, because I’d gone from watching him through my window in his bedroom, to watching him sleep. I couldn’t help it, when he slept it was like the whole world shushed too, so they wouldn’t wake him.

But I decided not to, for the sake of how long a walk it would be if he wanted to go. “There is one place.”

Jean cracked an eye. “Yeah? What kind of place?”

“My kind of place.”

He grinned. “Can’t be worse than here.”

…

So, we went. We stepped out my backdoor when both my parents were in my dad’s office and wouldn’t be able to see us. Mikasa saw us leave, but she just arched an eyebrow and smiled.

Already, Jean was itching to know what we were doing. “You’re not gonna tell me are you?”

I shook my head. He groaned, theatrically. 

When we got to the railroad half a mile into the woods behind my house, he was _really_ curious. 

“Are we gonna jump in a boxcar?” he asked.

“Nah, but if the snow gets high enough I’ll take you boxcar diving.” We walked down the rails together. He huddled close to me, cigarette tucked between his lips, and pink-tipped fingers rubbing together near his chest.

It wasn’t as cold as it could have been. The sky was clear, except for a few clouds, and the trees were still. Without the wind, the sounds of chipmunks scurrying and squirrels climbing could be heard over a dozen feet away.

“What’s boxcar diving?” he asked.

I laughed. “When the trains stop you can climb on top of them. And when they get going again they go real slow at first. Once you’re up there, you wait until it rides past a high snowbank and then you jump.”

He grinned. “Sounds like you’ve got a death wish.”

I shrugged. “I’m not the only one who does it. Everyone who’s sick of this place does. You’re telling me they don’t have something as stupid in Nebraska?”

He laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. Foggy puffs of his breath and smoke floated toward the sky. He flicked his cigarette. Orange ashes drifted to the snow. “Bumper skiing.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I spit, “Fucking hick.”

He shoved me, before he threw his cigarette on the ground and stepped on it. “Like you’re any better.”

We kept walking, gravel and snow crackling beneath our feet. After about a mile, Jean asked me if we were just never going back and I was tempted to tell him yes. Yes, Jean, I’m taking you the fuck out of Superior. We got shit to do other places. 

But no, we weren’t. We were going to Oliver Bridge.

First we reached the tunnel – which actually went right through the side of a hill – the train went though. We didn’t go in it. Instead, we had to walk through the woods down the hill. It lead to the twenty-five-mile-per-an-hour speed limit highway that went through Superior. The hill was steep and Jean and I skidded down it while leaning backward on one arm in the snow. Jean was covered in snow by the time we got to the bottom of the hill. Without thinking, I reached up to ruffle his hair and flick the snow out of it. Jean gasped, and his body stiffened, but he made no move to shove me away. 

I hesitated before pulling my hand away, both because I realized – Oh fuck, that was so gay, and also because I didn’t want to stop touching his hair (even gayer). 

We kept walking, Jean trailing behind me as the bridge came into sight.

His brow furrowed. “Had to drive over that bridge to get here.”

I nodded. Almost everyone had to. But despite it being the only real way to get to Superior from Minnesota other than the Duluth Bridge, there were never that many people here. This bridge was hidden in a valley, surrounded be plateaus with birch trees cropping up on top. It crossed a part of Superior Lake that had meandered a little too far. The water was a sheet of glass, and over the years the water had risen to flood across the ground, and now the skeletons of trees rose up from the center of the water.

The lake stretched on for miles, and in the daylight the water was ink black. Because Lake Superior was so fast, and had so many currents and so much movement from boats and aquatic life, no matter how cold it go in Superior the lake never froze. The sun glared off of it so brightly that the sun itself could have been just below the surface. It blurred into the edge of the sky in the distance, smudging the horizon line. Like the clearing with my deer, this bridge was one foot out the door of reality and into heaven.

The bridge itself was about a football field long. The metal had once been painted red, but over the years it had been rusted and graphitized into all sorts of shades. The corners and screws were smeared black like an artist’s charcoal drawing, while the road had been faded in the sunlight until it was a gray like the skid marks left by a shitty eraser. Not even the lines separating the two halves of the road were apparent. 

But this bridge was special for another reason. It was a double-decker bridge. The bridge on top connected two tunnels drilled into the sides of the valley walls surrounding the lake, and the bridge below weaved around the plateaus. But in the middle, right over the water, the bridge for the trains and the bridge for the cars had overlapped. On top, the trains that ran through superior rode over, and underneath all the poor suckers heading to Superior, and the smart ones escaping. There was a myth about the bridge being built on loose bolts, like any day now the train would pass over and crush the road beneath it. 

“Why’d you take me here?” Jean asked, as we approached the bridge. It had a side walk on the one side, but the view over there was shitty, and the beach side was cluttered with beer cans, spray paint bottles, and used condoms. It was the other side that everyone appreciated, and Jean followed me down that side – the left side – of the street to the center of the bridge.

“That’s why,” I said, pointing to the lake. Jean’s eyes widened, taking in the sight.

In the very center of the bridge, everything appeared symmetrical. But also, the lake was so still that if you looked down, over the guard rail of the bridge, you couldn’t see the water at all. It was just my reflection, Jean’s, and the sky’s. The reflections of the valley plateaus sunk right into the lake, reflecting like walls surround a bottomless cavern into another dimension. Clouds drifted over head, and they drifted hundreds of miles below too. It looked as though if one of us jumped over the rail, we’d fall endlessly into the sky, not into the freezing depths of Lake Superior. 

The tree trunks in the middle of the water, instead of ending at their roots in the ground, kept stretching on into another upside down tree that existed in the world underneath the surface of the lake. In the center of the bridge, looking down, you were looking right into a parallel universe. This place didn’t exist in the real world, it was stuck between Superior and somewhere I wouldn’t reach until my death. 

Jean cleared his throat. It was so quiet I could hear him breathing and his hands fidgeting inside his pockets. “The water’s so…so still. It’s like a mirror.”

I nodded. Even when it was windy, this place was never affected, because it was in the valley. The only time this water was disturbed was when the train came through.

We looked through our reflection’s eyes, our alternate life’s eyes, at each other.

“Do you come here a lot?” Jean asked. 

I shook my head. “Only when my house is too loud to think in.”

He smiled. “Yeah, I get that.”

“You should draw it.”

Jean’s eyebrow rose. “I should. But I don’t…don’t know if I could.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’d probably make it better.”

He laughed. “You’re right,” he said, with false confidence. I could always tell when he was adding a layer to his mask now. His eyes drifted downward to the left a little. 

A horn rang through the air. Both Jean and I tilted our head’s to the right. I faced Jean, who didn’t seem to get the significance of the sound. He must have known the train was coming, but he didn’t realize why it mattered. 

Before I could tell myself not to, kind of like when my hand touched something hot and I pulled it away before I could even process the pain, my hand shot up and clasped around his ears.

His eyebrows furrowed. “What are you doing?”

I snatched my hands away, and let them hover in the air like I couldn’t stand having them close to me after they’d betrayed me. The train was close enough now that the sound of the wheels was rattling. The horn wailed again. “Sorry uh…Just…the train’s coming and…you gotta plug your ears or it’s gonna hurt like hell.”

“Oh…Okay,” he said, almost too low to hear over the sound of the earth being pummeled by the weight of the train. It echoed through the tunnel within the valley, and as the train emerged the sound ricocheted off the walls of the plateaus, bouncing off the water. It rippled, spreading waves around us like blood spreading within my body. 

“I can just cover my –” 

Jean cut me off by pulling my hands up to his ears like I had a moment ago. Then he placed his hands over my ears. 

As the train passed over, it rang so loud it jumped through my heart, and lungs and bones. It sounded like the world was ending, being obliterated in a few seconds that stretched on in slow motion over decades. Jean’s eyes met mine. Our bodies, the bridge, the surface of the water and the portal to that other world, were all wavering underneath the train’s power. 

That was when Jean chose to lean in and kiss me. His lips were placed against mine like a secret, and I could feel its signature on my lips even after he pulled away. 

His eyes looked into mine, reading my thoughts behind my irises, waiting for me to tug my hands away from his ears, even as the train continued to pass over. 

I didn’t pull away.

He smiled, and then his lips were against mine again. They molded to mine as we kissed, and the world shook, and my heart danced in my chest. I felt like I was falling, I was falling through that other sky, so slowly it could be gliding through space, with Jean’s thumbs now stroking my cheekbones as he protected my ears from the screaming rage of the train’s horn. 

We stayed like that until the train had long passed, minutes later, still sheltering the other’s sense of hearing and feeling the pulse flicker in each other’s thumbs and cheeks. 

He parted from me first, and his hands inched away from my ears so that they could cradle my face. “Have you ever done that before?”

I shook my head. “Never.”

“Me neither.”

“Not even with…with a girl?” 

He laughed, and shook his head. “Girls don’t count.”

I grinned then, blushing hot underneath his fingertips. 

His fingers were still stroking my cheeks. He kept looking my face up and down. He pulled a strand of hair out of my eyes. He kissed me again.

“Sorry,” he breathed, “I don’t want to stop.”

“Me neither,” I replied. He leaned down to kiss me some more. I’d never get used to it. I refused to. His lips were too sweet, felt too perfect against my own. Every time his left mine, I felt like my lips were being magnetically pulled toward him. I couldn’t believe Jean fucking Kirstein had just kissed me. And then I remembered.

I slapped his chest. 

“Ow, fuck! What?” he demanded.

“You asshole,” I spit, “Do you remember meeting me? You fucking better.”

He bit his lip, pulling his hands away from me. “Oh…”

“Yeah _oh_.You called me a faggot? What the fuck was that for?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “It’s just…just what I do when I see…when I see someone like…God, as cute as you, okay? If I make you hate me right away then…then I don’t have to worry about, ya’ know…liking you.”

I’d had a whole lineup of curses on my tongue ready to roll off of it, but they all got stuck in between my teeth when he said that. “Really?” I choked. 

He rubbed the back of his neck, blushing and looking away from me. “Yeah. But then you…you fucking lived next door. After that I was fucked. I was _so_ fucked. So, I just…just didn’t even try not to like you, ‘cause I wasn’t going to win. Especially after…ya’ know…you didn’t tell anyone about my dad.”

He stepped toward me, cautiously. When I didn’t push him away or anything, he placed his hands on my waist. “You’ve liked me…like a long time, then?” I asked. 

He nodded, “Since I met you.”

I cleared my throat. “Oh.”

He laughed at my lackluster response. “Now, can I kiss you or are you gonna hit me again?”

I nodded at him. He arched an eyebrow at my unclear response, but decided to take the risk and kiss me. I let him. 

We walked back on the path we’d come. Except for when climbing up the hill, we walked holding hands. His fingers were chapped, and thin in comparison to mine, but his grip was firm. Holding hands with him made it feel like I really did fall into a different world, because we walked through the woods down the railroad, and no one was there to tell us it was wrong. No one was there to make me feel like this wasn’t the way things were supposed to be. It was just me and him. If it was never anyone but me and him, the animals, and nature again, I thought I couldn’t care less.

But it had to end. We reached the tree line that I knew so well, and walked through them until we reached my backyard. 

We were back home, back to the real world, and Jean and I let go at the same time.

…

That night, once my parents, Mikasa, and Armin had all left, Jean and I climbed out onto my roof. We laid a blanket down, then sat down on it together. He lit a cigarette and held it in one hand while his other arm wrapped around me. I curled into his chest this time, unlike the other times he’d curled into mine. 

The fireworks burst all around us from all the surrounding neighbors. The closer it got to midnight the louder it was. They boomed in the air, threatening to crack the sky. Each celebratory flare sparkled in artificial-color-scale magnificence in competition with the stars. There were sounds of squealing children and drunken laughter coming from gatherings in the nearby driveways. The smell of Jean’s cigarette smoke and the distinctly separate smells of bonfires and firework smoke. The fireworks created their own clouds in the sky. They thudded in my ribs just like Jean’s heart did against my ear. 

When the neighbors began to count down to the New Year, chanting loudly and cheerfully, Jean sat up on the roof shingles and leaned over me. With his free hand, he threaded his fingers through my hair.

When the neighbor’s screamed zero, he kissed me into the New Year, right on my roof so everyone in heaven could see. 

And God, it better be a happy one. Please, let us make it a happy one. 

… 

January 1, 2015

I suppose I should have a new journal, or whatever this is, for the New Year. But I’ve only barely used any of this one. 

I went to Duluth Bridge with Mikasa and her parents last night for the count down. Eren stayed at his place, thank God. As soon as he found out I was going, he stayed behind. 

She kissed me when the countdown hit zero.

I stayed at her place last night, kissing her until the sun came up. 

I love her. Maybe adults would think I’m too young to know, but I do. I know because I’ve had to go through more than most adults have in my life, and sometimes I have to be an adult. I have to be someone else at school, and do what adults would do, which is ignore everything and pretend it’s not there. All of the time, I have to hold myself back and be someone I’m not and pretend I’m something else. 

So, if I can go through all that and know what all that shit is like, I know I can be in love. 

Before I met her, I don’t know if I believed I ever would be, but I am.

And it’s made moving here, going through everything I’ve gone through, and putting up with all that other shit, worth it.

I love her, and I love saying that I love her. I love seeing it spelled out on paper. I haven’t told her yet, but she knows every other one of my secrets now, she knows all the parts of me I hide and have to pretend aren’t there, so I guess I’ll tell her soon enough.


	6. Sketchbook paper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter Armin and Mikasa go through hell, Jean shows Eren dozens of moments of his life in paper, and they both get a bit sticky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this edited horribly. I've been writing it for weeks and kind of just want to get it fucking posted. I'll clean it up over time.
> 
> Also, Eren uses another racial slur in this chapter. He doesn't mean it, doesn't direct it at anyone, or think of himself that way, I promise. It's used the same way it was last time.
> 
> There's gross teenage boy smut too, just warning you. The descriptions are not explicit, but it's underage.

January 21, 2015

Everything is different now. 

There’s no other way to say it. I can’t say everything is better now, because it’s not. Eren and I don’t talk as much at school anymore. Neither of us said anything about it, or decided to do it, yet somehow I know we both think it’s for the best. 

We never thought anyone was suspicious before, but that was because before this we weren’t sure if we liked each other. Now we have to pretend we only kind of like each other and only sort of know each other. A few people have asked me what the hell has happened. I just tell them that they thought we were closer than we were. That I “barely know the kid.”

That’s not it either. Eren’s family is starting to notice stuff. Like clothes they can’t remember buying Eren, and Eren being stupid enough to attempt to wash his own sheets, as if he could possibly do that without his mom asking him what the hell he was hiding. 

I mean…not that we like DID anything. Not EVERYTHING. Just…some of it. 

Neither of us even

We didn’t

He didn’t need to wash the sheets, put it that way. We don’t know what the fuck we’re doing. 

But I’m okay with that because it makes everything easier.

The first night that Eren and I both got in our boxers for bed, he got really nervous. Normally we both sleep in our sweatpants or shorts or whatever, you know, to avoid being gay. Ha, ha. 

Anyway, he got really nervous, and his kissing was all shy, and he was being fucking adorable, but I knew that wasn’t what was important right then. I asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m like, a super virgin, okay? Like…when other people lose their virginity, I get it, and then it multiplies, but you know, like not with sex. And then there’s a bunch of baby virgin-ness that grows up and multiplies too, but like, again, not sex.”

I laughed for like a minute straight. Whenever he’s nervous he says the weirdest shit. It’s always hilarious. But I didn’t say that to him. I said, “So?”

“So, I don’t know what…I don’t know how to do this. And I don’t want your shit.”

And I’m just like, why the fuck does he think I’m any different? I’ve kissed girls, and I guess fooled around with them, but like the farthest I’ve gone with a girl I could do alone. And really, I’d rather do it alone than with a girl.

It took me a while to figure out what I was going to say to that. “I’m a virgin too. Extra-virgin, too. I don’t care. I’d rather be with you.”

And it was true. Not just with sex, but with anything. I’d rather be with him. 

(Later, after dinner) 

He kissed me after I said that. And we didn’t do anything. He told me he didn’t want to, and then stuttered and explained that he DID want to, a lot, a super-fucking lot, but he wasn’t ready. He blushed, and said he knew he was acting like a girl, but he couldn’t help it.

I told him not to say shit like that, and the reason I did was because it was just the type of thing my dad would say to me if he ever found out I decided not to have sex because I “wasn’t ready”. At least once a week he tells me I’m “acting like a girl” for something or other, and it becomes less and less difficult to earn the insult all the time. He says it in front of my mom, and every time he does she winces and gets really uncomfortable. Not because she doesn’t like him talking shit about girls, I don’t think. I feel like it’s because all the stuff he says I’m doing that’s “acting like a girl” is stuff she used to do, but doesn’t anymore. My mom never lets him see her cry, no matter how hard he hits her. Unless she’s drunk, of course. 

When I told Eren not to say shit like that, it was kind of a reflex. I flinched because I can’t stand the idea of him saying anything that I'd get yelled at by my dad for saying. 

No, that’s not it. 

It’s more like…I can’t stand the idea of me making him feel the way my dad makes me feel. 

Anyway, the point is, when I said it I wasn’t exactly trying to make him feel better. I just didn’t want to hear him say shit like that. But once I said it, I realized it DID make him feel better, because he started kissing me like…like the kind of way that makes the sheets all sweaty and makes me wonder how I’ve made it this far with nothing but my hand. 

We were sweaty, and gross, and that’s why his sheets were sweaty, and gross. Not because we fucked. Not because either of us 

He didn’t need to wash his fucking sheets, and now they’re on to us for nothing. We even had our first fight over it, which hurt like hell. 

(Later, after my hand stopped cramping for the most part) 

He told me he washed his sheets because he’d panicked. He thought someone would somehow figure it out, and he told me that I wouldn’t understand because we never do anything in my house. Then I asked him if he would like to find out what would happen if they found out in my house. I asked, “Do you think you’d rather get caught at my place? Do you want to start fucking there?”

When I said it, I knew it hurt him. I knew that was a low blow. And I hate myself for it still, because no one worries about me more than him. No one in the whole fucking world except him knows what goes on in my house, and he’s been there for me. 

I shouldn’t have said it, so I told him I was sorry. He was clearly amazed that I apologized (so was I. He’s fucked me up), but he said sorry too. 

I would never tell him this, but all that mattered to me once we made up and he was in my arms again, was that he had made me angry and the most I did was yell. I kicked his computer chair too, I guess.

But I didn’t kick him.

…

January 21, 2015 

I’ve had the best three weeks of my life with Mikasa. I sneak into her room almost every night. We don’t fuck or anything, not yet, but we both want to.

We’re waiting for now, and I’m fine with that. Because I like doing everything else with her. I like holding her while she sleeps. I like drawing stuff for her. She usually asks me to draw nature, like a deer or a lake or something. 

I think that my mom would love her, if she ever gave Mikasa a chance, but I can’t exactly explain why. I guess maybe it’s because she calms me down. When I’m angry or upset, she’s always able to help me get over it. I have a shitty attitude, and an even worse temper, but she won’t take any of it, because she can have a bad attitude and a bad temper too, and hers always beats mine. 

I think that’s the kind of person I need in my life, and I hope mom can see that if they ever meet. 

…

I was standing in the hall upstairs with Armin, listening to my parents yell at Mikasa downstairs in the living room. I didn’t think this had ever happened before, except in revenge daydreams of mine that consisted of me fantasizing about Mikasa getting yelled at for once and me sitting upstairs in my room not giving a shit.

I absolutely _was_ giving a shit. I didn’t really _want_ to give out any shits at ten thirty pm on a school night, when I could be in my bed making out with Jean, but I was. I’d spent a lot of my life saving up my shits to give since I rarely spent any, so I guess it was overdue. 

“Please, mom. It’s not her fault,” Mikasa begged.

I didn’t disagree. It wasn’t Armin’s fault. I wasn’t entirely sure what the situation was, but I knew that it wasn’t his fault. I could tell by his tear-stained face, and ruffled hair that it wasn’t his fault. He leaned against the wall across from me, hugging himself. His fingers were shaking, and clutching on to the pink sweater he was wearing. 

“It’s a school night, Mikasa,” my dad said. “And we can hardly encourage Arianne to run away from home.”

“She isn’t running away from home! She was _kicked out_! She has nowhere to go!” Mikasa cried, and my back stiffened. I didn’t know my sister could get that loud, let alone cry at the same time. It was just wrong, so wrong it was like I was in a completely different world. The girl downstairs couldn’t be _my_ sister. My sister was incapable of flinching. My sister could watch The Notebook and Million Dollar Baby and My Sister’s Keeper, and all those sad ass movies without hardly blinking _in a row_. 

This was bad. I was decently certain that whatever this was, it was the worst thing that had ever happened to my sister. And because of that, automatically, it was kind of one of the worst things that had ever happened to me too. 

“She was kicked out for sneaking out,” My mom said, like a slogan, as if they hadn’t established this already. My mom had been hung up on that since the beginning of the argument. Even when Armin rang the doorbell five times, crying when my mom answered the door, the moment my mom learned that he had tried to sneak out, she went from sympathetic, nurturing, adoptive mother to judgmental, church-goer, PTA bitch.

I didn’t think sneaking out was the real reason. Armin didn’t seem like the type of guy that would sneak out, and even more so than that, I didn’t think Armin was the type of guy that had anywhere to sneak to. Every time my parents asked why he was sneaking out, my sister ignored them and said something else. 

“The answer is no. We’re taking her home. If you keep pushing this, we’ll have to ground you. We aren’t even sure we want you to be around her anymore,” my dad continued. 

Armin’s head ducked and he whimpered. Downstairs, my sister sobbed. “Why won’t you just listen to me?!” she damn-near screamed. Her scream rattled in my chest. Now I had one of hers and one of Jean’s trapped inside of me. I’d remember those sounds for the rest of my life, and if I died and went to hell, I would not endure fire and burns for eternity, but those screams. Mikasa in my left ear, and Jean in my right. 

Please, God. Mikasa doesn’t deserve this. Armin doesn’t, and Jean doesn’t either. Why is this happening? Why won’t you answer her?

“That’s enough!” my dad yelled. He continued to say something, but it was too low. 

“I came out to my parents,” Armin whined. “This is all my fault.”

“You did?” I blurted, before I realized I should have said, “No, it’s not.” 

He nodded. “They’ve been trying to get me to apply to an all-girls catholic school…I can’t. I can’t go there. I’ll die.”

I nodded. I couldn’t personally relate, but I could imagine. I could imagine that an all-girls catholic school would be Armin’s hell. If it didn’t literally kill him, he might prefer death, and that made me think of what it was like for Jean in his house, and how Jean sometimes thought he preferred death. An all-girls catholic school for Armin would make Armin go through what Jean did at his home. Armin wouldn’t last, I knew.

“There’s gotta be something you can do?” I asked.

“Your parents are going to give me a ride home. They don’t know where I live. So I’m going to give them directions to my grandpa’s.”

“Does he live nearby?”

Armin nodded.

“Will you…I mean, will he uh…”

“He already knows,” Armin said. “He accepts it.”

We heard footsteps in the hall, and both of us became ramrod straight. Armin wiped his face, and crossed his arms, clearly trying to look indifferent, but failing. I couldn’t look indifferent if I tried, so I just stared at Mikasa in horror as she dragged her feet up the steps. 

Once she reached the top, both she and Armin gravitated into each other, hugging each other tightly. Mikasa sobbed, and sniffled, and gripped on to him tight enough to leave fingerprints.

“They’re taking you away.” Her voice was normal now, if a bit raspy. She looked over his shoulder at me. Her eyes were black pits. I couldn’t find my sister in them anywhere.

“I’ll go to my grandpa’s. It’ll be okay,” he reassured, patting her back. 

“They won’t let me see you.”

“It’s okay. We’ll see each other at school. Just four more months.”

“Four more months,” she repeated. She kissed his forehead, and the sight about knocked the wind out of me. “They won’t let me ride with you.”

He nodded before pulling away from her. “Call me, if you get the chance?”

She nodded, and then he tip-toed down the stairs. For a moment, I had the worst fear that my parents would hurt him, and was suddenly thankful Mikasa hadn’t out-ed him. If they knew, they would probably be as bad as Armin’s parents were. 

“Is he going to be okay?” I asked her. 

“Yeah. His grandpa understands – or, well, not really understands but –”

“Accepts,” I interrupted. 

She gave me a tender smile, and nodded.

“You won’t get to see him.” 

“I won’t,” she said, simply. “Not anymore.”

“I hate mom and dad. I know I’m not supposed to, because they took us in. But I hate them.” My voice cracked as I spoke. 

My sister’s smile and eyes started to blur at the edges and she let her hair fall in front of her face to hide it. She hugged me. Her hands were so weak on me, they were barely touching me. Last time she hugged me, it was because I had accepted Armin’s identity, and this time it was because others couldn’t. I wondered if my sister would ever be whole again. “I know, I do too. But I love you, Eren. You know that right? I love you no matter what?”

The question made me rigid, but I told myself I was looking too deeply into it. Since being with Jean I always felt guilty, always felt like I was walking into a trap. That wasn’t what Mikasa was doing, she wouldn’t do that. It wasn’t like her to say she loved me, but neither was screaming. “Yeah, I uh…I know. Me too, uh…you know, for you.”

She pulled away from me so that she could go to bed. I heard the front door slam downstairs. Armin would be climbing into the car with my parents now, about to have the most uncomfortable car ride of his life. 

When I walked back into my room, I threw an eraser at Jean’s window. Within seconds, he was at the window, yanking it open. “Hey, I heard the yelling. You okay?”

I shook my head.

“Eren? Eren!” Jean hissed, and then he was jumping on to my roof. In a blur, his arms were around me and holding me tight to his chest. “What’d they do?”

I sniffled. I blinked back my tears, closing my eyes to try to keep them from seeping out. “Nothing. They weren’t mad at me.”

“They didn’t catch us?” Earlier tonight, when the doorbell rang, I told Jean to go back to his bedroom. I didn’t know what was going on, but I had a gut feeling something could go wrong. If something as crazy as the doorbell ringing at ten pm could happen, anything could happen, and I didn’t want Jean to be in the bedroom when my parents found a reason to open my door. 

“No. It’s not that.” 

“What is it?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it right now. Can we just…can we just go to bed?”

“You can’t just – ” Jean’s eyes met mine, and whatever he saw, it made him shut up. “Okay. We can go to bed.”

Jean held me, and with every beat of his heart I counted my blessings. 

Blessing 1: I wasn’t Armin.

Blessing 2: I wasn’t my sister.

Blessing 3: Jean wasn’t either of them, either. 

Blessing 4: My parents still didn’t know about Jean.

Blessing 5: I was wrapped up in his arms.

Blessing 6: And so on… 

… 

When break ended three weeks ago, and the spring semester started, everyone got all new classes. Jean and I didn’t have math anymore. We didn’t have any classes together, actually. We passed each other in the hall, and if I was lucky I got a wave, sometimes he said hi, other times when few people were around we even talked. Once he walked right past me because he was with his straight-camouflage group of friends, but right away he looked at me over his shoulder and winked at me. That had been the highlight of my day. 

But ultimately, being near him at school now felt awkward, and Jean’s papier-mâché mask had never had so many layers. 

Today, I was standing at my locker when I noticed Jean approaching me. I didn’t look too long in his direction, but my cheeks were already heating up. 

I shoved my math textbook hard enough into my locker that the medal rattled – this way, the book knew I hated it – as I waited for Jean’s footsteps to approach.

They didn’t reach me. A girl I barely knew planted herself in Jean’s path. I held my locker door open, watching them, ready to duck my head behind the door in a second if she noticed me staring. Her name was Mina. She was a head shorter than Jean, with black hair tamed by pig-tales, and really pretty, blue eyes. 

She was talking animatedly to him, standing on her toes multiple times and spreading her arms and fingers out into the air the louder her voice got, like she might take flight and become Tinker Bell if she was just adorable enough. 

As she spoke, Jean looked at her with a bored, and slightly confused expression. He had to know that she was hitting on him, he wasn’t stupid. 

When she tilted her head back to giggle, his eyes wandered in my direction. 

We looked at each other, both of us knowing what the other was thinking, what he was wishing, where he’d rather be. Both of us were thinking of my bed, with our limbs and fingertips caressing and exploring and knowing. I was thinking about my thumb circling the back of his head, right where it was buzzed in the hallow of his neck where it met his skull, and how his body went slack when I did that, how he couldn’t look more peaceful if he were laying on the beach. 

I’d never been so in sync with another person. My heart and mind were responsible for two now. At every moment of my day, my thoughts followed him like a satellite. During first period, he was in health class I knew, and I hoped he wouldn’t get caught sleeping again. In second period he was in gym, and in the back of my mind, the same part of me that made sure I breathed and blinked and my heart beat, I was worrying he’d injure himself in his quest of kicking everyone else’s ass. 

Third period had just passed, and I had spent the whole class irritated, because somehow I knew he was on a different floor, in a different hall, in a different classroom, drawing something inappropriate, crumpling it up, and tossing it across the room into the trash can when the teaching wasn’t – or was – looking, and risking getting detention and having to walk home in the snow and getting his ass beaten by his –

Mina handed Jean a slip of paper, and I reminded myself it didn’t matter if our minds were always on each other. It didn’t matter if I knew that boy had bruises on his stomach, and a ticklish spot on his ribs, and books under his bed, and a scar his dad gave him on the very top of his head that prevented him from buzzing it all the way, and drawings of the planets and leaves and flowers on his arms, and insecurities about not being strong enough, and not being big enough.

It didn’t matter, because the Post-it note with Mina’s number on it was tangible, and it was now in Jean’s hand. 

When she scurried away, he didn’t stroll up to me, he marched. He slammed my locker door against the door next to it, and looked me in the eyes. For a moment I thought he was going to kiss me, angry, all teeth and breath, but he didn’t. He exhaled, narrowed his eyes, and crumpled up the note with her number on it. He threw it in my locker.

I almost smiled. He didn’t throw it in the trash. He knew that wouldn’t be good enough for me. He could go back to the trash. He could unfold it the way he had my crumpled up airplane the first day we spoke. He threw it in my locker so I would know that he’d never touch it again.

“What you just saw,” he said, his voice was sharp and hard, and cut right through my tough charade, “didn’t happen.”

His eyes were intense. They turned the rest of the school black and white, leaving just his golden irises glowing as they studied me.

I don’t know what came over me, but I said, “Looks like it happened to me. More than anything between us has.”

Because wasn’t it true? If Mina handing him the paper didn’t happen, then he and I _definitely_ didn’t happen. We’ve never even touched in school.

When I tried to step away, Jean pressed me by my chest into the nearest closed locker. “What the fuck does that mean?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. Just – forget it.”

I tried to pull away again, and he kept me there. “Fucking tell me. Are you –” he started, his voice too high and too dangerous. He added in a whisper, “Are you uh…are you breaking up with me?”

All I could see was gold, glimmering, molten gold. I shook my head. I wasn’t. I couldn’t. I didn’t even want to. 

What I wanted, was for everyone to know. I wanted everyone to know what _did_ happen. Jean and I had happened. It was the best thing that had _ever_ happened, and only God, Jean and I knew about it, and I was afraid God didn’t care and no one else would. When would I ever be able to walk up to Jean the way Mina just had? In what world? Not this one. 

I was afraid no one else would ever even know, and the greatest thing that had ever happened would pass by without ever being celebrated. Then again, maybe no one would, and maybe only Jean and I could ever do it right. Maybe it was up to us, and if he was all I ever had, well, he was enough. 

Jean’s eyes searched mine for a second longer. The bell rang, but he didn’t budge. 

“I’m not breaking up with you,” I whispered back.

Jean didn’t look convinced. His hand skated away from my chest to hold my hand. He didn’t even look to see if anyone was watching, and I knew it wasn’t just because the bell had rung and everyone was supposed to be in class. It was because we were in sync, and he knew my eyes would have warned him if someone was around to see us. 

He kissed me. Not behind the locker door, either. No one was there, but still. It was all he could give me in that moment. He kissed me and he took the risk. It was a risk I wasn’t sure I could have taken, and I was suddenly grateful Jean hadn’t put me in a position to prove myself. 

Jean walked off without another word. 

… 

January 23, 2015

I kissed her at school today. 

I keep replaying it over and over in my head. And every time I think about it, I still can’t believe I did it. 

I don’t think I even decided to do it.

I saw the look in her eyes when Mina came up to me. She’s a jealous person. She wasn’t jealous of Mina. She had to know that Mina wasn’t my…type. 

She was jealous because she

We don’t want anyone to know we’re together. She’s not allowed to have a boyfriend, and really I’m not allowed anything. And her brother hates me, and he already knows I come over. He could tell her parents any day now, if I pissed him off or if she did. So she doesn’t want to do anything that might. 

I can’t get mad at her for it cause I know if I saw some other guy walk up to her, even look at her, the way she lets me, I’d break the nearest fucking thing, which would hopefully be his nose. 

I kissed her because I could see in her eyes that she was doubting every moment we’ve ever spent together. Everything we have is real to ME. I don’t care if anyone else ever knows. I don’t like anyone else. Everyone else can go to hell. But she hasn’t seen how awful people can be, she hasn’t lived the life I have. She doesn’t understand that looking like you’re together, holding hands in public or kissing or whatever, does NOT mean SHIT.

My mom kisses my dad every morning on the front steps. She wouldn’t do that inside. She does it for us. She does it so the neighbors will see, and they do, and they don’t think anything of it because they’re stupid and everyone believes what they see. That’s why no one thinks I’m beaten until they see bruises. 

Letting other people see means nothing to ME. But it does to HER. And that’s why I kissed her, because I knew she was thinking “Is it really a breakup if we were never really together?”

No one saw, but I know she knows someone could have seen. 

It hurts, that she thinks like this. That she doesn’t know if we’re really together. 

And I’m not sure how to make it clear that we are without making it clear to EVERYONE.

But I’m going to figure it out.

It’s Friday. Dad’s gone. He’ll be back, of course. He’s just going to disappear for a few days like he does, and then he’ll come back drunker and angrier than ever. 

But for a few days, my mom can walk around the house at night without worrying she’ll bump something or make too much noise.

I can smoke in peace, and 

Oh, fuck. That’s it. 

She’s going to lose her fucking shit when she sees them. 

…

Dinner was a silent argument. I could hear Mikasa holding in her screams. I could feel the thud of my mom setting the dishes harder than necessary against the table in the soles of my feet. I could see my dad’s thoughts scrolling in his green-but-not-my-green eyes, as they flicked between my mom and my sister. His fingers tapped against the hard wood table, and my mom chewed very pointedly, as if to demonstrate that at a moment’s notice, she could purse her lips or cluck her tongue in disappointment. The air was thick with my sister’s rage, and I was starting to suffocate. Her eyes blinked indifferently, her shoulders raised and fell as if she were asleep, and no matter how much my parents made it clear they were still mad, still annoyed, Mikasa ate as if she were at the table alone.

God, are you there? Are you? Have you given up on us? ‘Cause I wouldn’t blame you.

I stood from the table the moment my plate was clean. Mikasa soon followed. My mom told Mikasa to do her homework, even though it was Friday. I almost laughed. 

Are you still trying to play parent, mom? Are you still reading from your script?

I imagined, as I followed Mikasa up the stairs, that she would purposefully avoid doing her homework today, tomorrow, and Sunday. 

I squeezed into my room, barely opening the door, because I knew I’d left my window open and the moment it was shut, arms would be there to welcome me. 

They wrapped around my waist and slid under my shirt, pulling me toward him. He pressed me into my door, kissing me. 

“Hey,” I said, into Jean’s neck. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

And I was. No matter how much I wanted people to know about us, I knew _why_ people couldn’t, and I had acted like it was somehow his fault that we hadn’t told anybody. He’d risked everything by kissing me, and now in the security of my own room with nothing between us but some flimsy fabric, I was embarrassed I’d let myself get so heated about a phone number at school.

Fuck off, Mina. 

Jean shook his head. “Whatever. Forget it. I want to show you something.”

Without my permission, I looked straight down, because I knew exactly what the fuck I wanted him to want to show me, even if I didn’t want him to know I wanted him to want to show me that. He snorted and shook his head. 

“Not that,” he replied. “Well, not… _just_ that.”

I shuddered, and since Jean’s hands were pressed against my back, he felt it. He grinned and I wanted to wipe it off his face, but, like, with my mouth. 

“Fuck you,” I mumbled.

“Okay.”

I blushed and squirmed away from him. “Oh, fuck off. Just show me whatever you’re going to show me,” I said. Before he could theatrically unzip his jeans or something, I added, “Not your dick.”

He chuckled. “Alright, come with me.”

“Shut up,” I groaned, and he laughed as he stepped past me.

“Wasn’t intentional that time.”

“Uh-huh, sure.”

I was ready to add more sarcastic commentary to Jean’s shitty sexual innuendos, but I realized he was stepping out the window, and I realized he wanted _me_ to step out the window, and I froze. 

“What?” he asked.

“Where are we going?”

He smiled, and ran his fingers through his hair. “My room.”

“ _Your_ room? Is it – what if – but your –”

“You’re cute when you get like this,” he interrupted. And I blushed, trying to mold my face into an expression of seriousness. To make it clear that I had failed, he added, “Even cuter when you’re angry.”

I sighed. “Jean, what about your dad?” I asked, thinking of the fight we had a few days ago when I’d washed the sheets. I assumed I’d never see his house. 

“Not home.” He was still smiling, but this time there was a devilish glint in his eye. 

“What if your mom catches us?” 

“Catches us doing what?” 

“Well…whatever…whatever we’re about to do.”

He shook his head, laughing. “I’m not bringing you there to fuck you. I was just giving you shit. Now come on, okay?”

I hesitated another moment, but I could tell that whatever this was, it was somewhat important to Jean. He didn’t want me to know, but he was running his fingers through his hair, and when they weren’t in his hair, they were fidgeting at his sides. Whenever he was nervous, he covered it up with cockiness and banter, which was all he’d been doing since I walked through the bedroom door. This mattered.

“Okay,” I said, as I stepped out the window. “Better be worth it.”

“It will be,” he replied, with a waver in his voice that betrayed his arrogance. 

I smiled. 

Jean jumped first. Like he had the first night he came over, he landed on his roof as if he had stepped over a puddle. I leaned over the edge for some time. There was at least four feet, maybe five, between our roofs, and his roof was at a downhill slant. It was winter, and although Jean swept the roof of snow with a broom regularly, there could be ice. 

“Scared?” 

I glared at him.

“Seriously,” he said, shrugging. When I didn’t respond, and my glare became even more venomous, Jean rolled his eyes and reached out for me. “You really think I’m gonna let you fall?”

“Fine,” I replied. 

I know I’m kind of a pain in the ass, God, and I’m sorry about that, but I have to be good for something. Please don’t let me die. Amen, or something.

I took one step back, and then launched myself forward. My feet thudded, and wobbled on the shingles. My arms whipped out to balance myself, and even though I clearly wasn’t about to fall, Jean took one of my hands. He pulled me into his chest as he guided me up to his bedroom window.

We stepped into his room, and it felt something like I had stepped into a very private corner of the universe separate from all the rest of the world. I first looked back out the window, into my own room. What did my corner look like to him?

From here I could see the very end of my bed, my closet door open and some of my clothes hanging. My computer chair just crept into view, and I knew that if my bedroom door had been left open, he would be able to see just the edge and doorknob in front of the wall. 

I swiveled around where I stood. Jean’s walls were blank. So were mine, but his looked as though they were unpainted canvases, waiting to be filled. Mine looked like they had been whited-out. There was a difference, somehow, and I thought it was in the glow of his lamps casting long shadows from his fan and his curtains, rippling out as the wind breathed into Jean’s bedroom. 

Jean’s room felt more lived-in than mine ever could. My room was home when he was in it, and this room would miss Jean any time he was gone. There were books on the floor, some closed and sleeping, some lying face-down and open, as if they had passed out there drunk, and others laying on their spines, pages upright. Those pages wavered, as if waving at Jean to get his attention, as he walked toward his bed and his feet bowed the hardwood underneath his weight.

His bed was undone. I didn’t make mine either, but again, mine was just an unmade bed. His was undressed, like it had come home from work and ripped all its clothes of and slumped into this corner of Jean’s room in its boxers, content to sit on its ass all day and watch the sun peer in through the window and drift from one side to the other, east to west.

Jean sat on the bed, watching me examine his room, and I remembered he had done the same thing once he was in my room for the first time. 

“Did you really make me jump over here to see your room?” I asked, sounding more annoyed than I was. Okay – I was a _little_ annoyed I had to jump over, and nearly die, especially because I’d have to do jump and nearly die again to get back, but I didn’t mind being in his room. I liked being in his room, actually. I liked being surrounded by little pieces of him. The clothes in this room lying on the floor had been touched by him, washed by him, smelled of him. The computer chair was turned outward, awaiting him, and adjusted to the height of him. The bed kept him warm, helped him sleep, supported his dreams and his vulnerable, unconscious body each night…

“No,” he replied. He stood, and his hands slid between his mattress and bed frame. His wrist strained as his hand searched for whatever was tucked underneath there, and then he pulled it out.

His sketchbook. Not the one he used in my room, as he sat in the windowsill and smoked. 

This was one I hadn’t seen before, with all different kinds of leaves drawn on the cover that weren’t printed there when he had bought it.

He held it out to me. “Open it.”

There was a knock on his door. My whole body stiffened, but surprisingly, Jean’s didn’t. He pressed his finger to his lips, signaling for me to be quiet. He kicked off his shoes, and unzipped the coat I had given him, before answering his door. I was far enough in the room that as long as Jean didn’t swing the door all the way open, no one would see me.

Jean cracked the door and peeked out.

“What was that noise?” a woman asked. Jean’s mom. Jean leaned on one hip, and tilted his head down to look at his mom. His face softened in the way parents do when they looked at their kids, and it was so endearing and heart-breaking that I had to wipe my eyes. I didn’t actually cry, but it was a close call.

“Me,” he replied.

“What were you doing?” 

“Wasn’t doing anything,” he said. 

“Is your father in there?” 

He shook his head. “Dad’s not home.”

“Oh – oh, right. Of course.”

“He left this morning,” Jean told her. I wished I could see her. His eyes squinted in a way that made me think it was hard for him to look at her.

“Right. I know,” she said, “I know. He won’t be back for days, you know. He’ll go – he’ll go – maybe he’ll get hit by a car this time, Jeanbo.”

Jean was silent for a moment, as he scrubbed his hand across his face. But he smiled, in amusement the same way he did when I was slightly annoyed with him. “Did you set an alarm?” 

“An alarm? What alarm? I don’t hear any alarm.” 

“For work tomorrow, mom. Did you set an alarm? Or do you want me to get you up?”

“I don’t remember,” she said. Her words slurred. “I don’t need to. I’ll be fine.” 

Jean sighed. He glanced at me, and held up one finger behind the door to signal for me to wait. He stepped out of the bedroom, closing his door behind him. I heard his voice, low and soothing, as he told his mom to watch her feet, so that she wouldn’t fall. The sounds became muffled as they travelled away outside of the door. He was gone for several minutes. Then, only his footsteps thudded down the hall, with more sureness on his way back.

He swung open the door and closed it behind him. “You didn’t open it without me, did you?”

“Open wha – oh, no,” I said, suddenly remembering that my fingers were clinging on a little too tightly to Jean’s sketchbook. “Is your mom okay?”

He nodded, chuckling. “Just kind of drunk, probably not even bad enough to get hungover though.”

I nodded. “Is she –”

Jean cut me off by kissing me. He placed both his hands on the side of my face. “Don’t worry about her, okay? Open it.”

I returned my attention to his sketchbook. He pulled me by one hand toward his bed. Jean’s desk sat at the end of his bed, and he had one of those desk lamps with a rotating post, and he turned it so the light spread across his comforter where we sat. I placed the sketchbook underneath the light, and opened.

Page 1: My bedroom window, my feet at the end of my bed. 

Page 2: The back of my head in math. My shoulders are hunched and I’m gripping on to my pencil like I’m trying to choke it. 

Page 3: My back, as I look into my closet. My hand is reaching out to grab a shirt. 

I flipped through the next dozen or so pages. All of them were me, fragments of me, like pieces of broken glass or memories that were too tiny to ever be glued back together.

“Look at the dates,” Jean said.

I flipped back to the beginning. These were from November. Some pages had multiple sketches, and Jean had even written the time of day next to each doodle. Sometimes two or three pages were all covered with different sketches, but they all had the same day. There was a sketch for every day of November at least, sometimes more. He had filled the sketchbook, and there had to be at least fifty pages. 

November. 

The word echoed in my head. _November, November, November._

He was drawing me in November. Before he was even in my house regularly, or for that matter _speaking_ to me regularly.

“That’s just November,” Jean said. “There’s one for December too.”

I swallowed, but my throat was tightening and my mind felt fuzzy. I thought about how I saw myself in the mirror. A beaner, an orphan, a faggot, a loner. These were the words that popped into the minds of people I hated. 

Mexican, adopted, gay, and lonely. These were the words that popped into mine.

It was how I saw myself. 

But that wasn’t how I looked in Jean’s sketchbook. When I looked at his sketchbook I saw something that couldn’t possibly be me, yet irrevocably was. 

I was alone in all of them, yet in every one of them I was being appreciated. I was all edges, bolded lines, contrasting shadows and softened curves along my cheekbones, shoulders, toes. He had drawn everything from my leg hair to the darkness of my skin – darker in images drawn at night, and glowing in images drawn in the day – and the gleam in my eyes that was brighter than the source of light creating it. In every picture, the only color on the page was the green of my eyes, my green, the right green. 

I was surrounded by smudged objects and hash-marked corners and shadows. They served as a border, something to surround me, point at me, gaze lovingly at me, because the page was meant for me. _Look at him, look at him, look at him._

This was how Jean saw me. 

The way he saw me, was how I wanted to be seen. This was how I wanted to see me, when I looked in the mirror.

And this was just November.

“Where’s…the other one?” I asked, my voice so low and weak I could hardly hear it. Jean scooted toward the edge of the bed and reached underneath the mattress again. The sketchbook he pulled out was covered in hands instead of leaves. He gave it to me.

The drawings in this sketchbook were dated just like the ones in the first were. Some had more than one doodle, and some pages all shared the same date. These drawings were up close, as if the camera had zoomed in. I saw myself in stunning detail, every hair, every crease in my eyes or smile, every curve of my knuckles and dip of my collarbones or throat. Steadily, as the pages went on, the images became more intimate. 

Page 1: The curve of my back while laying on my stomach.

Page 2: My midriff exposed by a rucked up T-shirt, the shape of my hipbone jutting out above my boxers.

Page 3: The shapes of my thighs and the looseness of my boxers as I sat cross-legged in bed. 

The color was more vivid than life toward the end, and somehow these colors were precious and vibrant in ways that the world couldn’t be, because I had given him these colors to put on the paper and he had chosen each one with care. The colors belong together, none were random, and the colors of real life were. On the page they blended and complimented each other in ways real life objects and nature did not. It was better, I thought. The way Jean saw the world was such a lovely way to see. 

I closed the sketchbooks and placed December on top of November. Then, as if I was tucking them in and saying good night, I slipped them underneath the mattress again.

When I looked back at Jean, he wore a worried expression. His shoulders were bunched up and his fingers were fiddling with the frayed hem of his jeans.

“Did you not like them?” he asked. He gave me just a fraction of a second to reply before he was blurting, “I know they’re just stupid drawings and I know it’s kind of creepy but at the time all I really had to look at was your window and I don’t have much else to –”

I placed my finger over his lip. He stopped, his golden irises sinking down to look at my hand. I stroked his lips with my thumb.

“Shut up,” I said, “You know they’re perfect, that’s why you showed them to me.”

When his eyes widened, I could tell that he wasn’t expecting that response, and I realized Jean _didn’t_ realize they were perfect. He had showed them to me because he knew it would shock me how long he’d been drawing me, not because of how amazing the drawings were. 

When I kissed him, it was with an energy I hadn’t let myself explore since being with him. I kissed him hungrily, clutching on to his shirt and pulling him toward me. He responded quickly, wrapping his arms around my waist. I pulled myself into his lap and straddled him, my chest pressing to his, aching for the warmth of his body. 

Jean rolled us over, so that I was on my back. My legs inched up his ribs and wrapped around his waist while he kissed every neglected inch of skin on my neck. His breath was warm against my earlobe, and his skin tasted of salt and musky soap. My fingers dug into his back. He groaned, his hips involuntary rutting into me.

My eyes snapped open and I gasped. My fingers scurried down his chest toward his jeans. When I pressed my hand against him, and he groaned like that again, the breath was taken from me. “You’re hard.”

His head jerked back and he looked at me, both amused and a little concerned. “Uh…yeah? Shut up, you are too.”

“Yeah, but, like – like, I always am around you, so…”

Jean gave me a lecherous grin, and I processed that I had said that out loud, and my blood started to boil.

“Really?” he asked. 

“Sometimes." 

“Damn _right_.” Jean was still grinning, and I contemplated shoving him off the bed, or maybe out the window. 

“You can stop being a fucking asshole now.”

Jean pressed his lips together in a tight line to try to hold back his grin, but it was hard for him. He kissed me. “Sorry.”

He wasn’t sorry. “Whatever,” I said, “you don’t have to rub it in just because – just because –”

“Because what?”

“Because I don’t…ya’ know…turn you on ever.” 

My face was throbbing. I looked away from him, trying to keep my expression angry. Things were already bad enough. He didn’t need to know that I felt like I was going to cry.

Jean placed his hand on my chin, and tilted my head toward him. “You think you don’t turn me on?” I hesitated, but nodded. He laughed then, and shook his head. “Ya’ know, I didn’t show you anything I’ve drawn since we’ve been together.”

My eyebrows perked up. “Yeah?”

He nodded before kissing me. “I like to draw your neck,” he whispered, as he kissed it. “And your shoulders, when you’re wearing one of my shirts, and one of the sleeves gets pulled up.” He pulled the collar of my shirt to the side, so he could kiss my shoulder. I shivered. Then his fingertips pulled my shirt up by the hem, and without needing to be asked, I pulled it off. “I draw your chest, and stomach,” he said, kissing my collar bones, my chest, my stomach, and my hip bones. His hands slid down my sides and eased underneath me. 

His eyes met mine, to ask for permission, and I nodded, so that his hands could grip on to my ass. His eyes flickered shut for a second, and he bit his lip. “I like to draw your ass, and how you look in your boxers in the morning when you sleep on your stomach. Sometimes the waistband pulls down a little bit,” he said, and I could picture it. Half my bare fucking ass peeking out of my boxers in broad fucking daylight, and Jean sitting on the windowsill drawing it. They had to be the gayest fucking moments of my life and I wasn’t even awake for them. That just wasn’t fair, but with my luck, I should have guessed. 

Jean’s fingers curled underneath my waistband. He looked at me again, his eyes narrowing and becoming intense. They were hard to look into when they were that dense with all his thoughts, but I did. I nodded again. He unbuttoned my jeans, and slid my boxers down just enough to expose me.

His jaw dropped at the sight. I was shivering, both from excitement and nerves. I didn’t know what he’d think of me. For the longest time, I had been insecure about not being circumcised. I’d heard so many girls say they thought it was gross.

When Jean said nothing, I really started shaking. He scooted up the bed to be face-to-face with me again.

But he kissed me, as his hand wrapped around me. I shuddered, moaning into his mouth, and Jean breathed it in. “I have to draw you,” he said, “to get it out of my head. Or I can’t stop thinking about it all day. It’s fucking annoying, actually.”

I kept kissing him as his hand began to stroke me. My eyes rolled back, and my fingers tugged at his hair. The sensation was blinding. The rest of my thoughts blurred into nothing as the one, over-whelming thought of how good it felt took over, becoming louder and less coherent the more he touched me.

“I don’t think I’ll draw this though,” he breathed, into my ear. His body shook next to me. “Don’t think I want to get it out of my head.”

My fingers clawed at his shirt, and his hand abandoned me just long enough for him to rip it off, while my fingers struggled with the button to his jeans. I tugged down his boxers, feeling my heart stutter at the sight of him, hard, because of _me_. My hand wrapped around him, and there was no doubt. I used to be afraid that I would make an ass of myself the first time I ever tried to get him off, because I’d never been with anyone before. But fuck, I’d jerked off, right? I might be a beginner at _this_ , but I was an expert at _that_. He had the same body as me. What made me feel good was what would make him feel good, and my hand didn’t hesitate on him. 

It was natural in ways I couldn’t imagine for us to touch each other like that, cling to each other, kiss each other, without ever for a moment doubting our actions. I couldn’t believe other people did it differently, because if it were someone else I wouldn’t be able to do it. Jean knew my body in ways a girl couldn’t. He made me feel good the way he had himself for who knows how long before this, and when I came, I felt no insecurity about the mess, because he was grinning. A few minutes later, his fingers twined with mine and he whimpered out my name, as he came hot over my hand. 

We laid on our backs next to each other, caked in sweat and come. We smelled like horny, teenage boys, and even I couldn’t get into that.

Jean laughed, and I turned my head to look at him. “This is fucking gross.”

I laughed then too, because it was. We reeked. We were greasy, sticky, and the sheets were wet. 

“You’re gross,” I told him. 

“But was it worth it?” he taunted.

I sighed, theatrically. “I guess.”

He shoved me, and I snorted, playfully shoving him back. 

He sat up in bed, pulling his boxers up and zipping his jeans. He tugged me by my hand into a standing position. I situated my clothing, and he kissed my forehead. We cleaned up each other’s stomachs and hands with some of Jean’s dirty laundry that had already been sitting on the floor. 

Once dressed, we left his disgusting sheets behind and jumped roofs over to my bedroom again. 

…

January 24, 2014

When Eren came over to see my drawings, of course my mom heard. She was drunk, and I had to bring her to her bedroom and set her alarm for her so that she could get up for work in the morning. On Saturday’s she only has half days at the bank, so at least she can come home and sleep.

Eren got really worried about her. I suppose he never sees his parents like that, and I haven’t given him any reason to think highly of mine, but he didn’t understand. My mom got drunk last night because she was happy. She got drunk because she was celebrating another opportunity for my dad to possibly disappear. Best mood she’s been in since…last time he up and left for a few days.

I like seeing her like that. I know it doesn’t change anything, and my dad will come back, and it will be like it always is, but I’ll take what I can get with my mom. She was happy last night, and that’s all that matters.

That, and how Eren responded when he saw my drawings.

I didn’t do it for that reason. I didn’t do it to get lucky. Somehow, I didn’t even realize that might happen.

But fuck, I should have done it WAY earlier. 

It’s ten am, Eren’s still in bed, and I’m still randomly getting rock hard thinking about it. HOLY FUCK.


	7. Tissue Paper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter Eren makes a decision that's cut short, Mikasa is way ahead of him, and Eren and Jean beat the odds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm FINALLY updating and I'm SO sorry for the wait. Thank you guys for being patient! Hopefully I'll be able to start updating this regularly again! Sorry if this isn't edited the best, I was just so ready to finally post it.

February 13, 2015

It’s the day before Valentine’s Day and I couldn’t buy Eren anything. I’m about 100% positive that buying him flowers or chocolates or something would exceed my maximum supply of gay for my whole life though. 

He didn’t buy me anything either, which was a relief. Every time I use the colored pencils he bought me, I hesitate. One day they’re going to run out, and I’m going to sharpen them into nubs, and I’m not going to be able to use them anymore. They were so expensive, I feel bad for using them at all. I only use them on drawings I make for him. 

Instead of buying each other anything, I kissed him again at school. It wasn’t like it was last time. I kissed him between each class. There weren’t a lot of people around, and I don’t think anyone saw. Eren warned me a couple times of what would happen if people saw. It drives me crazy when he says shit like that, because he wants me to tell people and at the same time he doesn’t want me to. I know why he does and doesn’t want it. I get it. But I wish he could make up his mind.

If the school finds out we’re together, I’ll live. I know what will happen. And it’ll just be a matter of me facing at school what I usually do at home. For me, it’s just full-time abuse instead of part-time. But Eren has no experience with that, and anyway, just because I can handle their shit doesn’t mean I can handle other people giving him shit. I don’t think I’d be able to control myself. 

Anyway, just one of the times I was kissing him, it got out of hand. It was toward the end of the day and I think we were both sick of holding back, even me. Since we had to be around all the other gross sappy couples with their balloons and teddy bears and bullshit. I kissed him before our last period, and even after he pulled away once I kissed him again. People walked behind us. I think they probably looked right at my back and knew I was kissing someone, but didn’t see that it was Eren. His back was to the locker and he’s so much smaller than me they probably didn’t even see him, or realize. I think they would have said something. 

When they started to walk by, Eren’s fingers clutched on to my hoodie. He held his breath, and almost pulled away, but I kept kissing him. It took him a second, but he kissed back. I could feel his pulse race in his neck as they walked by. Once they were out of sight I pulled away, and he looked at me with the most intense, like, DETERMINED expression I’ve ever seen him wear and then…

Then he pulled me into the boy’s restroom and into the handicap stall. He didn’t even check to see if anyone was in there and I’m still kind of freaking out about that. 

And we just…made out all through last period. 

(After dinner. My hand still hurts, but I have to write all this shit down or I’ll forget.) 

I’m getting so close to telling him I love him. I don’t want to. When my dad first started beating my mom he would always go through these short episodes after of being the perfect husband and buying my mom stuff and taking her out on dates and telling her that he’d never do it again. This was before he even started hitting me. And he would tell her he loves her, so much more than he ever did before he hit her…and it just scares me. I don’t know if those words mean anything at all. They feel like a curse.

But the feeling I have, that isn’t a curse, right? Words can be twisted into so many things. Faggot used to mean a pile of sticks. Look at it now. Gay used to mean happy, and now it means hiding, and trying to survive. It means feeling ashamed and spending years of my life lying awake at night begging myself never to fall in love because if I did, it would never be a girl and I knew that. It meant debating back and forth whether or not loneliness was worth it if it meant never being hated for who I am, and if being a virgin the rest of my life would make life more tolerable than allowing myself to be that close with someone in the dark and never even holding his hand in person. 

He’s the first person to ever make me want to love a man, make me feel like loneliness isn’t worth it, and that being a virgin for forever is DEFINITELY not tolerable when he’s around. I’m starting to want it all because of him. To want it like I used to. 

I know I say I don’t care if anyone knows we’re together. And I didn’t up until...today. But I used to. I used to want it just like Eren did. Before my dad lost his mind and before he left a scar on my head and before my mom became an alcoholic. I wanted to be able to let people know and have it mean nothing. No, not nothing. Have it mean the same thing it meant for my parents, because of course my parents were in love. When you’re that small, you don’t understand how they can’t be. Parents are supposed to be, right? 

I don’t want people to ruin it for Eren, too. I want to show people, for his sake. Because no one has taught him it isn’t worth it yet. No one has drained him of any desire to be himself yet and…

That’s WHY I love him. 

I have to tell him. Even if it terrifies me. It might not be as meaningful as announcing over the intercom to the entire school that I’m dating him, but it’s a start.

It’s more than I ever thought I’d do. 

…

My parents were going out for Valentine’s Day. Normally, having the house alone without the parental units was cause enough for celebration. But unlike other nights that my parents made the assumption that I had no homosexual activity they’d disapprove of to do, this time _they were fucking wrong_. 

After giving Mikasa a rundown of all the chores she and I had to do, they left, my mom wearing a dress and my dad wearing a pantsuit. I didn’t bother asking them what restaurant they were going to, but I knew it had to be in Duluth, or maybe even further, if they were dressing that nicely. The two of them were spending tonight and tomorrow night at a hotel through the weekend. That meant Jean and I had two solid nights together without having to worry about getting caught, or making too much noise, or hiding. Mikasa would be around, but I was pretty sure she had plans to go to Armin’s Grandpa’s place or something anyway. 

My hands were shaking as I slid the box of condoms I bought after school today into my nightstand drawer. Jean didn’t know I bought them, and I wasn’t sure I was ready to tell him. After school today, after being kissed by him each period between classes as if there was nothing to hide, I had sat on the bus on the way home in a haze. As soon as I jumped off the bus I walked to the gas station just a couple of blocks from my house. I had a grand total of a twenty dollar bill on me, and I used it to by a small box of condoms, lube, breath mints, and a bag of Doritos. 

Porn had never taught me much. Granted I couldn’t swear to God that the only reason I watched porn was for educational purposes. Still, it had taught me more than health class or sex ed. ever had. Porn had managed to teach me two things:

1) Two guys fucking still needed to use condoms.

2) Lube was our friend. 

Jean and I were both virgins, so I thought that meant we didn’t need to use a condom, but…I had to be sure. I didn’t know much of anything at all about sex and I was going to hang on to what little I did know with all I had, so…one of us was wrapping it up. 

If we even fucked. Currently, I was sitting on my bed, tapping my foot against the floor and staring at my ceiling, contemplating the pros and cons of sex in ways I never thought I would. Mainly, I never thought there _were_ cons of sex. Sex was _the goal_ , I had thought. Before meeting Jean, I would have taken the first opportunity with someone half as attractive and a quarter as acknowledging-my-existence-and-actually-liking-me as him. 

Here was the thing. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to have sex, or that I wasn’t ready, or that I didn’t think Jean and I should, or that I didn’t trust him, or that I thought I’d get in trouble, or that I thought I’d go to hell, or whatever it was people normally thought about when deciding whether or not to have sex for the first time. 

It was that I wanted to blow his fucking mind and I didn’t think I could. 

I was still thinking about it long after I got home from school and had tucked my cheap, scandalous merchandise away and had chip-by-chip eaten the entire bag of Doritos. With every chip I would alternate between thinking the phrases “he fucks me” and “he fucks me not”. 

During my deliberation, it had gotten late. I realized I’d spent most of my afternoon in my room, outside of the debriefing from my parents about not contributing to any parties Mikasa could potentially throw (Any way they looked at this it was a joke. Mikasa didn’t want to throw parties, and if I tried to, no one would come. They must have thought telling us not to have parties was what parents were supposed to do. They must have seen that on TV).

Jean should have been here by now. I was just getting nervous for different reasons altogether when Jean’s feet pounded against the roof shingles outside my window. I didn’t even flinch at the noise anymore. No, instead I sighed in relief. Every time he came through my window I knew he was safe for the night. For a while at least, we could leave his dad and the judgements of others behind. The square footage of my bedroom was the entire vastness of the universe. It wasn’t the slightest bit cramped. 

I stood from the bed, glancing over my shoulder and making sure there wasn’t any residual evidence that I had contemplated having sex with him. Then I opened up my window. Jean slid into my room. 

“Hey,” he started, tossing his backpack on my floor and pulling his sweatshirt up and over his head, “Sorry it took a while. My mom was in a shitty mood and wanted me to hang –”

I cut him off in the middle of his sentence with a kiss. He mumbled into it for a second. Just as soon he gave in and kissed me back. His hands wrapped around my waist and gripped on to my shirt. When I pulled him backward on to my bed, he eased on top of me. His body melted into mine. His kissing became outdrawn, sloppy, and careless.

“Thought you’d –” kissing, “be sick”, kissing more, “of kissing me,” still kissing, “by now,” he mumbled. 

I shook my head as my mouth chased his, even as he tilted his head back. He obliged me, but I could feel his back stiffen. I stopped and looked away from him, hoping he wouldn’t see my blush. Underneath my shirt, I had a few hickies on my collarbones he’d left on me earlier today in the bathroom stall. 

His fingers threaded through my hair. “Are you okay?”

I nodded.

“You know, I thought you’d get mad at me for kissing you so much today,” he breathed. His head leaned down so that he good place a kiss on my neck. “I didn’t think uh…you’d react like _that_.” Another kiss against my neck, lower this time.

“So what you’re saying is that you were hoping to make me mad, and _didn’t_ want to make out with me for an hour?” 

He snorted. “Shut up. I had blue balls the whole way home.”

“R-really?” I sputtered, around his lips. He nodded. His hands roamed up underneath my shirt. My pulse quickened, faster than it would have on another night his hands touched my skin like that. I thought of the condoms, just a foot away from me in the nightstand. My parents weren’t home. My sister was already in bed. The situation was about as ideal as it was going to be. 

“Mmhmm,” he hummed, as he scooted down the bed. His hands rucked up my shirt and he kissed my stomach. Part of me wanted to laugh because there was zero doubt in my mind even God had no idea what a snuggly, sappy, dork he was, and part of me ached because I wondered what made him like that. How did Jean end up this gentle idiot that placed kisses against my bellybutton and played with the ends of my hair while he was smoking? I didn’t know.

“Jean.” I decided right then and there that this needed to happen. That I _wanted_ it to happen. Even if it meant that I did something embarrassing or awkward. Even if it meant that it hurt at first. Even if it meant that Jean only thought the sex was only kind of okay and his mind wasn’t entirely blown. I wanted this with him.

See, the thing about being in love for the first time was that you knew it wouldn’t be the last time. Everyone knew that the first person they fell in love with wouldn’t be the person they married. That meant that being in love for the first time hurt from the very beginning, because from the very beginning you were waiting for the end. 

It was like an old car, in that way. You would drive that car, knowing that one day it would stall, breakdown, the battery would die or the engine would give out or whatever it was, and the car would become useless. You were hoping it didn’t end in a car crash, you were hoping it didn’t need to be totaled. But, even if you were hoping for the best, you were still only hoping for it to last as long as possible and end as uneventfully as possible. You were hoping one day, you’d put your key in the ignition, and the car just wouldn’t start and that’d be that, and you could move on without too much hurt. 

So if I couldn’t have it all with him, I wanted this. No amount of falling in love with other people after this would undo having my first time with him. 

“What?” he asked, looking up at me from where he’d been kissing my stomach.

I realized I’d been quiet a moment too long. I swallowed. My hands were clammy. I curled them in my blankets. It was hard to inhale. “Come here,” I said. He quirked an eyebrow at me, but did as I asked. 

Without speaking, I tugged at his shirt. He took it off without understanding the significance. We’d been doing it for weeks, after all. As soon as his was off he pulled mine off. His bare chest pressed against mine was still the most exhilarating sensation I’d ever felt. I shivered. My breath hitched thinking about feeling his entire body against me.

My hands slid down his sides, dragging along hot skin. My hands curled in the waistband of his sweats and he needed no further encouragement. He sat up so that he could pull his sweats off. And when he came back to me in his boxers, I flattened my hand against his chest, pushing him back into a sitting position.

“What?” he asked. His fingers tugged at my hair. It prickled against my scalp.

My eyes stayed on his, golden and glowing always, no matter how dark it was, while my hand reached for the waistband of his boxers. He glanced down, and then back up. His eyebrows shot up as he realized what I was asking.

Since the first time we’d gotten each other off, we’d done it almost every night since. Every night that he’d stayed at my house anyway. But we’d still never gotten naked, or taken it any farther than just using our hands. 

“You sure?” Jean whispered. He glanced around my room the way he did whenever we did anything more than kissing. He knew my parents weren’t here, but it was just an extinct I supposed. But there was no noise in the house except the low murmur of my sister’s TV in her bedroom. She often left it on all night. It helped her sleep, I guessed. More importantly, it helped Jean and I get away with making some noise that would be loud in an otherwise silent house. 

I nodded at him. He stood up, and slid his boxers down. His body was illuminated in the moonlight, creating deep crescent shadows around his abs, calves, hipbones and pecks. His stomach was not as bruised as I’ve seen it in the past, although it seemed some of them were practically tattoos on him now. I ignored that. Instead I paid attention to the fact that he was hard, that he was trembling, that he was biting his lip and running his fingers through his hair, shifting on his feet as I gazed at him. He couldn’t possibly be insecure, I told himself. Not Jean. Insecurity was my problem.

I slid off the bed and faced him. Placing my hands on his hips and standing on my toes, I kissed him. His fingers traveled around the nape of my neck, one hand curling into my hair again. We leaned into each other, trusting the other to support each other. His fingers were delicate along my skin, hardly touching me as he kissed me back.

“Eren,” he breathed. My hands pulled away from him to slide under the hem of my own boxers. “Listen, I think I should tell you something before –”

“I already got that covered.” I thought of the drawer with the condoms and lube. I swiveled around on my feet to open it and show him, but he tugged me by my hand back to him. “What?”

Did he not want to? A shudder ran down my spine and my chest became heavy. My cheeks flared. I covered my face with both my hands. My pulse throbbed in my ears. I hadn’t even considered that he wouldn’t _want_ to have sex with me.

Jean’s hands tugged mine away from my face. Before I could shove him away from me, he wrapped his arms around me and pinned my own to my sides. One of his hands came up to cup my cheek.

“Got what covered?” he asked, “What are you talking about? Can you just listen for, like, one second? I’m trying to tell you something and it’s…it’s not easy for me to say.”

“Don’t you want to?” I asked. “I thought – I thought you wanted to. With me.”

His eyebrows furrowed as he searched my face. “Want to what?”

“Have sex.” My face was throbbing with my blush, but I looked him in the eyes anyway.

Jean scrubbed his hands across his face and stepped away from me. “Of course I do. I didn’t know you wanted to uh – do that uh… _tonight_.”

“Kinda decided after today.”

Jean’s eyes widened in understanding. “So you want to? Tonight? You’re sure?”

I nodded. Then his hands were on my waist and he was kissing me. His arms reached around me and his chest pressed against mine. The weight of his body eased me back, and the support of his arms kept me from tumbling. His lips glided over my neck and my chest and the excitement rushed through my veins. I started panting. Every touch of his body against mine made me hyperaware, tingling.

Just when his fingers curled under the hem of my boxers, I heard something click. I flung myself into a sitting position. My eyes darted around the room looking for the source, praying it wasn’t what I thought it was, when my eyes landed on Jean’s petrified expression. His eyes were on my bedroom door.

I whipped my head around to look over my shoulder. My heart damn near pounded through my ribcage ready to face my mom or the wrath of God when –

It was a blurred dash of Mikasa’s silhouette instead, followed by the slam of my bedroom door against the wall paneling. 

“Eren?” Jean rasped once the silence overcame the ringing in my ears. His eyes were still stuck on the door. His chest was rising and falling the way it did whenever he escaped here after an encounter with his dad. I rested my hand on his shoulder. 

“Stay here.” 

I pulled Jean’s hands away from my body and stood, reaching for the jeans I had discarded on the floor earlier today after my parents left. I tugged them on and stood in my room for a second, waiting for my body to recover. The fear of what was waiting on the other side of my bedroom door wouldn’t leave, but Jean’s hands on my body still had my fucking dick’s attention and I needed to cool off. 

Once it did, I stepped out of my bedroom. She must have known that we couldn’t pretend this didn’t happen, because she was waiting for me in the hall. She had her nose tucked in to her hoodie. Her eyes were staring at the floor like she’d just been through a warzone. 

That’s what you fucking get, Mikasa. 

She finally looked up at me, after I’d been standing in the hall for several seconds. My hands were balled up and shaking. I was glaring at her.

“Why the fuck were you watching us?” I spit.

“I wasn’t watching you,” she said, grimacing, “I was about to ask you if you minded if Armin came over. And when I opened the door I just –”

“Why didn’t you knock?!” I yelled, thrusting my hands in the air and gripping on to my hair. I was shaking so bad I thought I might punch something. I’d punched walls before. One time I punched a hole right through the wall and my parents had me mow the lawns of our neighbors all summer to help pay to patch it up and repaint it. I’d been so angry that day. They’d made me go to church, and the entire sermon had been on how gay people were an abomination and my parents had just nodded along. It was like they knew – they _knew_ – on a molecular level somehow, like a sixth sense, that I was gay and that on that Sunday the preacher would have the opportunity to pray my gay away and I had spent the whole hour, internally screaming and panicking while trying to act bored and tired on the outside. Feign sleep. Feign indifference. Pretend everything was okay.

And I had come home that day, barely making it up the stairs before I spun around, screamed, and punched the wall. When they asked me why I did it, I told them that I’d broken my cellphone. In actuality, I had been holding my phone when I punched the wall.

Now what do I do, God? My sister knows. My parents would know. Where will I go?

My sister was still staring at the floor. A sob escaped my throat against my will and I covered my mouth.

“Why couldn’t you knock?” 

She sighed and glanced at me, wincing like the sight of me had pinched her. “I usually hear when he comes over. I don’t know why I –” 

“You what?” I gasped, “You – you already knew he comes over?” 

She nodded. “I try to keep the TV on so mom and dad can’t hear when he lands on the roof…I guess the volume was up too high this time. I don’t know why I didn’t turn it –”

“How long have you known?” My voice was thick with my emotions now, raspy and low in my throat. I wiped my face. There weren’t any tears but I could feel them coming. My head began to swirl, thinking about the dozens of nights that Jean had been coming over here. I should have realized it sooner. My parents should have heard by now. But any time they had…the very few times they had…my sister had always called down the stairs to let them know it was her TV.

“That you’re gay or that he’s been coming over?” she asked. 

I jerked my head back at her question, stepping backward until my back pressed into the wall. It was cold, it made me shiver. Jean’s feet were pacing around in my bedroom. I listened to see if I could hear my window open. It hadn’t. He hadn’t left me here to deal with this alone. 

“You know I’m gay? How? How did you know?” The tears fell now. All these years I thought I was the master of hiding, and pretending and being a spy in my own home. I never slipped. Never. I had always been the expert straight kid. I knew by now exactly how to look like one, to camouflage, and my own sister caught my bluff. 

“I live with you and I pay attention to you,” she replied, shrugging, as if my understanding of the universe hadn’t just been rewritten in a language I couldn’t understand. “You’re my brother.”

When I had nothing to say she stepped toward me and placed her hands on my shoulders. I didn’t react to it. I couldn’t. She wasn’t supposed to know this yet. 

“It’s okay, you know. I’m not going to tell mom and dad. That you’re gay or that you and Jean are together. That’s up to you.”

I exhaled, sobbing into my hands as she wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into her chest. I couldn’t even fight her on it. How could I? She was the first person in my life to be okay with it. Besides Jean, but _of course_ Jean was okay with it. He was like me. She wasn’t, and she had the opportunity to hate me, to tell mom and dad, for years. Through all our fights in our lifetime, and all the times I had gotten her in trouble, and all the times she had my back, it went even deeper than that. More than I ever knew, because she had kept a secret safe that I had never even given her to protect. She had done it without question, without ever asking anything in return. I held her back.

“Thank you,” I choked. 

Nodding, she let me go. She stepped back, and as if nothing had happened, she asked, “Do you mind if Armin comes over?”

I shook my head.

“You won’t tell mom and dad?” she asked.

I snorted. Mikasa, you could burry a body in the backyard and I wouldn’t tell them. Everything I ever catch you doing again is between you and God.

“No,” I said, “Nothing.”

“Thanks.” Then she vanished into her bedroom, closing the bedroom door behind her. 

A sigh escaped me, and it felt something like light had filled my chest. The moment I was in my bedroom again Jean’s hands were cupping my face and his amber eyes were piercing mine. “What did she say? Is she going –”

“She’s known all along,” I said, a bitter chuckle leaving my throat. 

“Really?”

I nodded, clicking the door shut behind me. “She isn’t going to tell.”

“Okay,” he said, and a relieved smile spread across his face. “Uh…did you still want to…?”

I shook my head. “She’s got company coming over and…”

He kissed my forehead without me needing to explain that it wasn’t right anymore. The moment had come and passed. Now all I wanted from him was the length of his body against mine in my bed, and his heartbeat underneath the shell of my ear. And that’s exactly what he gave to me the moment we slid under the covers. I pulled off my boxers like he had. We touched, skin to skin all the way to our toes and the hair rose on my legs, but we didn’t take it any further. I shivered in his arms. A smile crept across my face as a few more tears fell. I hadn’t realized how terrified I was all these years that I would lose her. So much of my energy was spent fearing that my parents would hate me, that I had forgotten to worry about my sister. Now the relief washed over me and my whole body felt like it was filled with air, warm from Jean’s skin and my nostrils filled with his minty scent. 

“Hey,” I said, barely hearing myself over the sound of his heart.

His fingers combed through my hair. “Hmmm?”

“Weren’t you going to say something?” My eyelids were heavy. My breaths were becoming deep. I was seconds away from bliss.

“It was nothing,” he mumbled. 

And then we were both gone for the night. 

…

February 14, 2015

Mikasa caught us right when

It shouldn’t have even gotten that far. Not that I didn’t want to

I SO wanted to. I just didn’t want to before I told him, but once he offered I just… couldn’t not. I don’t know why I want to make sure I tell him first. Maybe it’d change his mind. Maybe it’d make me feel like I deserved 

Or maybe it would reassure him that I wasn’t going anywhere. He didn’t have to

I wasn’t going to leave him even if we didn’t 

When Mikasa caught us it was one of the scariest moments of my life. Maybe as scary as when I’m face-to-face with my dad. I thought I was going to have to jump out the window. I’m not even kidding.

But she didn’t care. She’s never cared. She’s always accepted him. And I think I’m almost as relieved as he is, because if everything goes to hell, if we break up or his parents find out about us or…or whatever happens, he’s going to have someone else. He won’t be alone. 

I will be, but I don’t matter as much.

… 

The next day Jean had to go home in the afternoon. He had to be there by the time both his parents woke up, and would probably have to eat dinner there or at least hang around until the two of them fell asleep. I kissed him at the windowsill and watched him leap over to his roof, and disappear through his window. He undressed on the other side and changed into something else to wear. It was almost like it was when we first met. 

Later that day, when I finally decided to spend some time downstairs, Mikasa was in the kitchen ordering pizza and Armin was on the couch. Sitting down with enough space between us to fit Mikasa, I joined him. The two of them were watching an Anime I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t the dubbed version. Mikasa was probably getting to the point that she could understand most of it without the subtitles, and Armin looked like the type of boy that preferred to look at words instead of listen to them. 

“Hi, Eren,” he said, still looking at the TV. There was a quiet power within Armin I couldn’t explain. Something dormant in his bones, ready to spring at any moment, but for the most part put on a tight leash by his insecurities. What I thought I loved most about his presence was that he had no expectations of me or anyone. He also didn’t assume that I had expectations of him. But I thought he was still smart enough to catch on to when people _did_ have expectations of him, and I believed he could live up to them regardless of whether or not he believed the same. 

In my lifetime, I didn’t think I’d ever met someone so kind. 

“Hey,” I replied.

“Did Jean leave?” he asked. 

Mikasa had told me earlier today that Jean didn’t need to hide from Armin. Not only was Armin the first one to realize that Jean was coming over, and caught on to the fact that Jean and I were together all by himself, but he was trans. He had no reason to have a problem with us. At the very least, he understood what it was like to be different, to be in the closet, and to want to be accepted. If I stopped wallowing in my pity party I knew logically that he had it worse than us. 

He couldn’t be himself _ever_. Even now, with just Mikasa and me around, he was wearing a purple sweater with the obvious shape of a bra underneath. 

“Yeah,” I replied. “His parents don’t know he comes over here, so he had to be home before they got back from work.”

Armin nodded. He adjusted on the cushion so that he was sitting cross-legged and holding on to his ankles. 

“I’d like to meet him sometime. I always see him at school. He seems nice.”

I snorted. Not even _I_ thought my boyfriend seemed nice. Armin looked up at me and I arched an eyebrow at him. “What the hell made you think that?”

Armin shrugged and a sheepish smile crept across his face. “I don’t know. Underneath it all. The way he acts, I mean. Underneath all that, he seems like a good person.”

“Doesn’t he have to act nice to be nice?”

Armin shrugged. “I don’t think who people are and how they act are always the same thing. Like me, you know?”

I nodded at Armin, remembering Jean’s masks. I’d nearly forgotten them and warmth flooded through my chest as I realized the reason I had almost forgotten them was because he never wore them around me anymore. He was always just Jean, the person underneath all the masks. He could finally be himself around me and I’d never felt so proud. And it made me feel even prouder that Armin approved of him. 

“He is a good person,” I said. And although I’d never tell Armin – even if I knew Armin wasn’t capable of telling secrets – I knew Jean was something special, because he was a good person despite it all. Not even despite it, but _in spite_ of his parents. He was a good person because he knew that destiny had set him up to be something awful, had prepared for him to become his father like everyone expected abused boys to be, but instead he placed kisses on my bellybutton and nuzzled my neck and smelled my hair before he fell asleep. He stayed in his house on Christmas and watched movies with his mom. He set her alarm for her when she was drunk. He drew her pictures of him when he was a baby. He refused to let me or anyone else blame her for what was happening to them both.

Oh, Jean, I thought. I’m so lucky to have fallen in love with you first. 

Because there was this quote about love. Now, God and I have had our differences and I’ve had my issues with church, and have hated religious people, and have cursed at him and asked him what the fuck he’s done to this world and why he lets so much pain happen to such good people. I have woken up some days with the worst fear in my gut that when I die there will be nothing but a body and no soul to speak of and I have spent nights crying and thanking God for the opportunity to exist at all. 

I have believed in him and I have not, and I have wanted to believe in him and I have refused to.

But beyond all that, no matter what, there is one quote that has always stuck with me. I wished I knew who said it first. Who put this feeling into words. 

When you loved somebody, you were seeing them through the eyes of God. 

So if that’s true, God, Jean must be one of your favorites. He must be someone you waited eons to create and spent centuries imagining in your mind, and decades waiting for the exact circumstances to be created so that he could one day be born and the day he was born must have been celebrated in heaven like none other because you have never, ever made anyone else like him. 

“Eren?” Armin asked. “Are you okay?”

I jolted and my head spun to face Armin, realizing that my epiphany must have looked like I was having a stroke or something. My hands jumped up to touch my face. No tears, but my eyes were stinging.

“Yeah,” I choked, “Yeah, sorry. Just zoned out.”

Oh God, I loved him. I loved him and I didn’t know until now that this was the feeling that I had missed before I had ever even had it. This love for him must have existed before I met him because it felt so suddenly like what I was always meant to feel. Like the feeling had always existed in me. 

Last night I had been willing to accept that Jean was a first love and all first loves ended. How had it changed so fast? 

“Thinking about Jean?” he asked. I smiled. I loved that Armin wasn’t teasing me. He just genuinely wanted to know. That was why I didn’t lie to him. I nodded. 

“I get like that with Mikasa sometimes,” he said. 

“Is it hard being away from each other?” I asked. 

Armin nodded.

“So why not just…move on? I mean not that I, like, want you to, or anything I just, uh…” I blushed. Armin didn’t pay my rambling any mind.

“I feel like you know you have something really special when a long-distance relationship is still preferable than being apart. I don’t like being away from her, but it’s better than not being with her at all. It’s not even really long distance. We see each other at school.” While Armin spoke, Mikasa peeked in at us from the kitchen. She wasn’t on the phone anymore. It looked like she’d started cooking something else to have with the pizza and had poured Armin and her both a glass of pop. She smiled at him, her eyes becoming soft and glossy like the fawns’ eyes in the forest. 

“I’m glad you’re over,” I said, even though that wasn’t what I meant at all. What I meant was, _I’m glad you’re not an asshole just trying to get in her pants. I’m glad you love her. I’m glad you’re together. I’m glad you’re not giving up because of my shitty parents._

I didn’t truly understand my sister’s relationship to Armin, if it was romantic or not, but I knew my sister had found something in Armin that she wouldn’t have found in anyone else. Even my mom was getting to the point that she didn’t think Mikasa would ever be interested in any boy and here she _was_. But she was interested in a boy my parents would never accept and it occurred to me that…

Mikasa and I would both have to tell our parents at some point. We were all each other had, besides Jean and Armin. I thought that was okay somehow though. If God had given me the choice to pick from all seven billion of us of who my family would be, I’d probably still choose the three of them. Maybe that was why they were in my life. 

When her eyes glanced away from Armin toward me, she smiled and ducked her head away to look into the oven. She was blushing.

Armin looked over his shoulder at her. “Did you decide to make pizza rolls to have with our pizza?”

She nodded. We both laughed and she shrugged, staring at us both shamelessly.

Armin opened his mouth to ask something else when between dialogues coming from the anime they were watching, a loud thud rung through the stairwell. They both glanced up toward the ceiling and then toward me. I leapt from my couch and sprinted up the steps only barely bothering to answer Mikasa when she asked if Jean and I would want pizza.

“Don’t worry about it,” I called, without even bothering to look at her. 

Then I faced my bedroom door and swung it open, slamming it behind me. I scurried over to the window with a grin spread across my face because I was still bursting inside with the new found revolution that _yes_ – Oh God, _yes_ – I was in love with this boy. 

My hands gripped on to the bottom of my window and I swung it up. Jean slid in, whimpering, and already my heartrate had spiked and my hands were reaching for him and gripping on to his sweatshirt as he sunk to my floor. I slammed my window shut and closed my curtains with one hand as the other grabbed his hand. He was bleeding from his nose again, but his lip was fine. His cheekbone bruised, but both his eyes were fine.

What hurt the most was, my first response wasn’t:

1) Oh my God, what happened?!

2) Who hurt you?

3) Are you okay? 

I was used to this now. I knew what happened and I knew who hurt him and I knew he wasn’t even close to okay. 

My first reaction was, “Shit! I can’t get ice; Mikasa’s downstairs.”

Jean gripped on to his nose with his free hand, gripping on to me too tightly with the other. I helped him stand up. He winced. His back hunched. Another whimper escaped him as I eased him on to my bed.

“How bad is it?” I asked him. 

He sobbed and pressed his forehead into my chest. There was enough blood that the smell of copper flooded my nose. His blood and tears dampened my shirt and pasted it to my stomach. My fingertips slid into his hair and combed through it trying to soothe him. He pulled off his shirt and tossed it across the room. He laid his back flat against the bed. 

His stomach was swollen. Not parts of it, his _whole_ stomach was swelling. His chest was reddened. I knew if I looked at his back, it would probably be bruising too. 

“My mom blacked out,” he managed, only now starting to calm down and stop crying, “she blacked out before he was done with her and when I tried to stop him he just…he just took it out on me instead.” His voice cracked as he spoke. His chest rose and fell rapidly and unevenly. The pinch in his stomach every time he inhaled proved how difficult it was for him. Fear sprung in my chest as I considered the possibility that his dad could have cracked or broken his ribs. He could have severely injured Jean internally and we’d have no way of knowing. 

“Is she – is she going to be okay?” 

“He hit her once,” he said, “I don’t think that’s enough to kill her.”

That wasn’t what I meant and it made me shudder. My definition of “going to be okay” included mild injuries and maybe a headache. Jean’s definition of “going to be okay” was not dead. Surviving. 

The tears that almost fell from my eyes downstairs poured from my eyes now. I shook my head. The room blurred and spun around me. I backed away from him, gripping on to my head. Jean was _living_ with this man. He slept in the same _house_ as the man who had no problem with potentially killing _his wife_. I had known that this man was bad, that Jean’s situation was bad, but only now was it really creeping into my bloodstream. _Jean could die_.

“Eren?” Jean choked, tilting his head upward so that he could face me from where he laid. “Eren? What – what’s wrong?”

What’s wrong? What’s wrong! How can you ask me that, Jean?!

“You can’t go back,” I snapped. “You can’t. You can’t live with him, Jean. I won’t let you!” 

Jean jumped up, much too fast, and again I saw him wince and bite his lip before morphing his wounded expression into a sneer. “I have to.”

“You can’t! He’ll kill you!”

Jean closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly. He’d done this before. He’d practiced this all the other times he had to convince someone not interfere. He was doing to me what he was doing to concerned teachers and nosy neighbors and suspicious cops and social workers. That knowledge stung a bit. I wasn’t supposed to ever be in the same position as those people. 

“Eren, where am I going to go? Here? Next door?”

My mouth had already dropped to say it, when I realized how ridiculous that sounded out loud.

“I can’t here, obviously. He’d find out. If I call the cops or go to a hospital, do you know what will happen to me?”

I shook my head. He took one step toward me, wiping his bleeding nose on his sleeve. “I’m going to be taken away because I’m a minor. I’m going to be put in a foster home. I’ve been in foster homes before, do you know what they’re like?”

I didn’t technically, but Mikasa did. I thought of my sister’s ghostly walk and gaze the first few days she lived with us. She flinched any time someone reached for the remote, or tucked their hands in their pockets, or stood up or really moved at all. She didn’t say a word the first three months she lived with us, and then when she finally did, it was only so that she could tell us how to pronounce her name and answer yes or no once in a while. It took years for whatever happened to my sister to creep out from under her skin.

I nodded at him.

“Then you know that they aren’t much better than living with my dad for a lot of people. They weren’t for me when I was in them.”

“I know,” I whispered.

“And I’m fourteen years old. Do you think anyone would honestly adopt a fourteen-year-old?” 

I shook my head. My parents had adopted Mikasa at ten years old, but they wouldn’t have adopted anyone older, and she had been in foster care for three years before my parents decided they’d take her in. They wanted someone younger than her. I was pretty sure the only reason they took Mikasa in was because they could tell that something was terribly, terribly, wrong. 

“Do you want me to be taken away?” he asked.

I sobbed and covered my face in my hands. “No.”

Jean wrapped his arms around me. He held me until my body stopped shaking and my eyes dried up. He could have held me for ten seconds or ten weeks and I wouldn’t have known the difference. All I could think about was the heat of his body against me. I used to think of his body as so much stronger than mine. Solid and chiseled like stone or marble. But now, as my hands trailed over the length of his neck, and I felt the skin shift just slightly under my thumb, he felt as thin and frail as tissue paper caught on a stem about to be blown away in the wind. 

His hand rubbed my back and he kept kissing my forehead every few minutes. Finally, if I wasn’t going to be allowed to let him move in with me and protect him always, I wasn’t going to think about it anymore tonight. Tomorrow he’d have to go home early. It was a Saturday. They wouldn’t have to leave for work and he wouldn’t have an excuse to be gone all day. That meant I only had tonight to make him feel better, to take him away from what had just happened. I hadn’t forgotten the cigarette burns on his arms. He hadn’t hurt himself in months, but he had drawn geometric designs and shapes all over his arms recently. He was still fighting an internal battle I would never understand, and he needed to be comforted. He needed to be happy. Either that, or he’d become as much of a threat to himself as his dad was to him. 

I looked up at Jean and wiped away the little blood that still trickled and some of his tears that hadn’t reached his chin. His face was raw. I cradled it in my hands like it might shatter. Standing on my toes, I kissed him and he went with it, molding to me without hesitation. My fingers trailed over his stomach, touching him as lightly as the sun’s rays would, and he sighed into our kissing. We crawled on to the bed together, and like he did to me, I kissed his stomach. I dragged my lips across as much of the swollen skin as I could. My fingertips glided across his other bruises until they halted over his heartbeat. My thumb stroked his peck muscle as I kissed him. After a few minutes, his breathing relaxed and he sighed again at the sensation of my lips. 

“Eren,” he whispered. I looked up at him. He reached for my head and ran his fingers through my hair. “God,” he said, “God, I hate when you look at me like that. Makes my fingers itch to draw.”

I smiled at him and crawled back up to him until I was straddling him. I made sure my weight wasn’t on his stomach. I flattened my palms against him so I could feel his chest rise and fall. One hand rested on each of my thighs. I bent down to kiss him and before I could pull away one of his hands curled around the nape of my neck.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” he whispered. He squinted at me. His eyebrows knitted and created a crease. My fingers curled in the comforter, and I almost pulled away from him, fearing the worst. 

“What?”

“It’s hard for me to say, because I didn’t think I ever would.”

I exhaled. When I looked away from him, because I was suddenly too afraid to see how he felt in his eyes, one of his hands reached up to tilt my head back in his direction.

“Okay.” My lips pressed together. I tried not to hold my breath.

His eyes searched mine for a second before he sighed. “I love you. I love you more than I think I should, and I’m never going to stop. I don’t think I want to anyway.”

A grin stretched across my face so wide my eyes crunched and my cheeks hurt. I laughed in relief and almost choked as I did, covering my mouth. I shook my head at him.

“No? You – are you – you love me?”

“I don’t lie to you. About anything. Ever.” His hand came up to cup my cheek and his thumb stroked it. “I love you, Eren.”

“I love you, too. I love you so fucking much and I’m not just saying it because you said it and I swear to God I was meant to love you and I think I’ve always waited for you to come into my life so that I finally could start.”

I said all those words in one breath. They strung together letter after letter almost becoming one word, but Jean understood, and his eyes beamed. He gave me his smile, his real smile. Not the one he practiced in the mirror, or wore in front of people at school, or had to force himself to put on. He did it without meaning to. It was crooked, wide and innocent just the way I loved best.

“You _would_ say something like that,” he replied. “All sappy and heartfelt and meaningful and shit.”

“Damn right, I would.” 

The two of us collapsed into each other, kissing and turning in my sheets. Our limbs intertwined and I felt all of him against all of me. His forehead pressed into mine. Between each kiss he told me he loved me again, like if his mouth wasn’t kissing me then all he could do was remind me again and again. I never got sick of hearing it, even after we fell asleep and the words were clouding my dreams. 

… 

February 15, 2015

There’s always a calm in my house after my dad has one of his episodes. Everyone in my house leaves each other alone. We go the whole day without talking. I asked my mom today if she was okay, if she needed me to run to the gas station and get her some Tylenol or something. But other than that, everything happens silently. My mom cooks, and I do the dishes and clean the living room and take out the trash. My dad mows the lawn and lays on the couch. Sometimes he curses under his breath at whatever he’s watching or because he finished a beer. But that’s it.

And sometimes my standards have dropped so low that I wish this was what it was like all the time.

But since meeting Mikasa, she’s made me want more.

She loves me back. I told her I love her. Finally. And she fucking LOVES ME BACK. 

I just didn’t see that coming. I didn’t see it ever happening for me, at least not the way I love her. But now it feels like there’s something more for both of us out there waiting. She talks like things are meant to happen. I know she believes in so much more than I do, including people. Including me. Around her, I can almost believe in all of it too.


	8. Post-it Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter Mikasa makes a life-changing decisions, Eren's parents are becoming more and more invasive, and Eren sleeps over at Jean's house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, the editing is probably shitty because I get ahead of myself and want to update. Anyway, thanks for reading!

It’s been over two months since Jean gave me the drawing of the deer in my meadow. In all this time, it has been rolled into a cylinder, wrapped by a rubber band, gathering dust in my closet right beside all my gayness. I’ve pulled it out a number of times to unravel it and gaze at it. Mostly I do this at night, when only my lamplight is on, still afraid one of my relatives will come barging in like they did today while I was looking at it in broad daylight.

Today, my mom was holding it. Supposedly she had come in here to hang up some of my clothing she had washed. When she came in and saw me holding the drawing, she took it from my hands without even asking if she could see it. 

I knew in my gut that she hadn’t intended to hang clothes. She hadn’t hung my clothes for me since I was ten. She hadn’t been holding any when she came in. I didn’t know why she actually came in, but somehow I knew that my mom was starting to notice what was really happening in her house. She came in here, hoping to figure it out. When she saw only me, holding the drawing, she didn’t have any proof, but she was thinking it. She was thinking what I had been waiting for her to be thinking since I first understood myself.

When you’ve spent your whole life decoding what others were saying, what they actually meant, what they wanted you to hear, versus what they had said but didn’t mean…you get it. You get it when someone looks at you for the first time and thinks –

_No…Not Eren. He couldn’t be…Right?_

The first time this happened to me was when I was about twelve. I was in gym class. Before and after gym, all the guys had to change in the locker room. Well, I was blossoming into a baby gay at the time…and didn’t feel right changing around a dozen other guys my age. It was hard in two ways. 

The first way it was hard was in the figurative sense. They were guys, and they talked about anything ranging from who farted the most at night to football to what prank they pulled on what teacher earlier that day. But they were also always talking about girls. Girls that were hot, girls they’d supposedly fooled around with, girls that were annoying, girls that were funny when they were drunk, and even how someone had drilled a keyhole into one of the doors that adjoined to the girls’ locker room if any of them by chance wanted to peek. It was hard to be around that all the time and constantly wonder why I couldn’t be a part of that. Why I was the one that ended up crooked.

And then there was the second, literal way. Me. I was. Literally in that way, I was hard. 

They were all in their boxers surrounding me, okay? All the fucking time. They were sweaty, and spraying their Axe body spray everywhere, and running their fingers through their hair, and usually talking about their dicks a considerable amount considering these were supposedly straight boys and on top of that, they were talking about the generally impressive size of their dicks. Or at least, the consensus according to each of them was that their own dick was huge and everyone else’s wasn’t. 

I was entirely ready to be the judge, okay. 

After some time, I couldn’t fake it anymore. I could fake the guy talk, even about girls. But faking a flaccid dick was a form of high art, and I wasn't any kind of artist. 

I was left with two options:

1) Face the locker for ten solid minutes, without turning or being tugged around by one of the guys into a headlock, shoved for being overly-competitive on the field or what have you, or spoken to, all while still changing from gym clothes to the ones I’d worn to school. 

2) Change in one of the stalls and don’t look at any of them in their boxers. 

Simple, right?

Not even a little. See, when a chubby guy, or an exceptionally skinny guy, or maybe even just a clumsy guy that wasn’t the greatest at sports decided to change in the stall, everyone chalked it up to insecurities. And sure they were teased, but no one thought about it. No one cared _why_. 

But me? I didn’t have any of those traits. 

I wasn’t chubby, I wasn’t too skinny, I wasn’t hated in that class. I was good at every sport I played. I got an A in gym. I was competitive, and better yet I was always on a winning team. None of them understood why I abruptly decided one day to start changing in the stalls.

They all made it their goal to figure it out. 

Every day for the rest of the semester until late April I was harassed going in and out of the stall. They called me a number of things, but mostly they just called me a girl, a pansy, or a pussy. 

I hated it. I hated that I couldn’t fight them like I would have before I realized I was gay. When I was younger, I fought everyone who even looked at me wrong. But when I truly let it hit me that I was gay in seventh grade, I wanted to be invisible. Fighting drew attention from teachers, from parents, from every corner of the school, and every kid in every grade there was. 

So even though I hated being fucked with every day, I bit my tongue and told them that my sister wasn’t going to be happy when I told her about them. That did it. They could call me a pussy if they wanted to, but _they_ were the ones afraid of my sister. I never told Mikasa, mostly because she actually would do something about it, and it actually did bother me that even if I did fight them…she’d be better at it than me. 

Anyway, it was an empty threat that worked every time. 

All that mattered to me – and I kept repeating it in my head as much as possible to stop myself from retaliating – was that they didn’t consider for a second that I changed in the stall because I didn’t want to see _them_ naked and didn’t want my body to _react_ to seeing them naked.

But one day they all got especially loud and especially persistent. Finally, what little control I had reserved for hiding my sexuality had been lost, and I let myself be angry. I let myself be angry the way I used to when I was younger, when the tiniest insult would shove me into a rage that ended with me tackling the person to the ground. 

I punched one of them in the nose. It didn’t break, and he bled a little bit. He was about to cry, and I was about to hit him again and again and again, but the gym teacher came in. The guy I had hit hissed under his breath that I had “punched like a girl”, and in order to look unaffected for the gym teacher, he straightened up and crossed his arms. Then he told the gym teacher he was fine and that I’d have to try harder than that. He kept bleeding. 

When the teacher asked the boy why I punched him, he didn’t have an answer. He couldn’t say, “Well see, I was in the middle of calling Eren a little bitch when –”

Yeah, that wasn’t going to work, so he kept quiet. I answered for him. I told the teacher that they wouldn’t let me change in the stalls. I still hadn’t changed into my gym clothes.

That was when he gave me _the look_. The no-he-couldn’t-be-gay-could-he?-But-he-seems-so- _straight_! look. 

I saw it, and somehow I recognized it for what it was immediately, despite never seeing it used on me before. He was suspicious. He’d be keeping an eye on me for the rest of the year. I knew he would, because he had just figured me out. 

He told the kids to let me change wherever I wanted, but I never changed in the stall again. I spent my time in the locker room the way I used to, just praying each time. Whenever someone tried to talk to me – hey, I punched a dude and was changing with them like I used to; I was one of the guys again – I said something that would shut him up. Whatever it was, even if I knew it was mean, even if I knew he hadn’t done anything wrong, I made him shut up and leave me the fuck alone. 

That was the story of how by tenth grade, I had become a social outcast just in time for Jean Kirstein to saunter through the front doors and redirect the entire world’s attention to his perfect ass. 

So…the point of all this bullshit past-reflection was that, right now, my mom was giving me _the look_.

She looked at the drawing. Then at me. Then back at the drawing. I wondered if it was the drawing that made her give me the _are-you-gay?_ look, or if it was something else. She was probably wondering where it came from, who drew it. 

I’d like to take a moment to thank my boyfriend, Jean Kirstein, for not signing it. Jean, babe, if you’ve found a way to telepathically listen to me, I owe you. 

Mom leaned against the paneling to my door. Every time she looked at me, my back stiffened and I forced my face to look indifferent and annoyed, but my knees were shaking.

“Where’d this come from?” she asked. Her eyes wandered around my room, but she wasn’t looking at _my room_. She was looking at – and yet somehow not truly _seeing_ – the bed rumpled on both sides. The colored pencils on my desk. The ashtray in the windowsill. The thick book opened face-down on top of a T-shirt that didn’t belong to me on the dresser. The – 

Oh God. Don’t do this to me.

The lube on my nightstand. 

“Eren?”My mom started, when her eyes finally zeroed in on the tube of Vaseline like she was looking through the scope on a gun. 

“Um…What the fuck are you doing in my room again?” I spit, trying to sound annoyed. Trying to make my voice raise and growl like it would if I was actually mad and not terrified. I could barely hear myself speaking over the rush of blood throbbing in my ears and my heart hammering. 

“When did you start…” she said. Her hand trailed across the drawing and I winced. My body jerked forward, about to yank her hand away so that she would stop. Jean would be seething right now, if he saw her oily fingers on the lines he’d created. She could smear them. She could stain it. She could _ruin_ it. 

I swallowed, hoping to redirect her attention. She squinted at me.

“When did you start…?” She couldn’t even finish the sentence. 

I didn’t think I’d ever heard my mom use the actual word “sex” in my entire life. It was _making love_ , and _private time_ , and _sleeping with_. Once, I think she used “fornicating”. She never, unless she absolutely had to, even acknowledged the existence of sex. She still changed the channel when there was a couple making out on TV and it was getting “Too steamy for the children”. 

But I could only imagine what she was thinking right now. 

She was thinking:

1) Eren, when did you start having sex?

2) When did you start having the kind of sex that requires lube?

3) What kind of girl has that kind of sex? Does she go to church? She better go to church, she needs it.

4) Or…Oh no. Eren… _do you masturbate? Do you…need lube…for…mas-tur-bat-ing?!_

Oh, God. Oh God, Please save my mom before she has a heart attack. She is about to die.

“When did you start…” she repeated. She swallowed again. Her forehead was sweating. Oh God, I was going to be the reason my mother died.

I would go to her funeral.

I would have to give a eulogy.

And I would have to try to keep a straight face the whole time I was giving the actual eulogy, while imagining myself giving a different eulogy that told the truth.

And it would go like this:

“My mother died because my boyfriend wanted to try fingering me, and even though I told him to put the Goddamn lube away when we were done, he didn’t, because he’s a lazy piece of shit, especially after he comes, and yeah, now my mom’s dead but at least my boyfriend didn’t have to stretch and open up the drawer before falling asleep, _am I right_ ?”

I can hear you laughing, God. 

My mom’s eyes met mine. I wanted to hide under my bed. I wanted to jump out the window, dig a hole, and bury myself alive. 

“Drawing,” she said, “I didn’t know you liked to…draw.” 

My cheeks could fry eggs right now. 

“Well, um,” was my clever response.

“I drew it for him,” someone said. And it took me a full four seconds to realize, yeah, I knew that voice. 

My mom’s head whipped toward my sister. “ _You_ drew this?” 

Mikasa shrugged, like it was just another one of her endless tucked-away talents beside volley-ball, basketball, knitting, and physics. If my sister told my mom she invented space, and designed the sun and the solar system herself, well…my mom wouldn’t believe her, but my mom would admit that it wasn’t that far-fetched.

“Yeah. For Christmas. You know, because I didn’t buy him anything.”

She’d probably been in her bedroom, listening to our whole conversation, realizing that something really, really awkward was happening. Her steely eyes met mine, before darting around the room like they were trying to follow a fly. She analyzed the crime scene, and all the various evidence I’d left behind. Her eyes rested on all the same out-of-place things my mom’s eyes had. She understood why Mom and I were having such an awkward conversation. 

I remembered that when I was like ten, everyone used to think it was really cool to fill in awkward silences with “every time there’s an awkward silence, a gay baby is born.” And then one day, I remembered someone else replying to this comment with, “Guess that makes sense, ya’ know, since they can’t do it themselves.” And that kid took things too damn seriously, but at this very moment I was beginning to wonder.

It seemed altogether too likely that my existence began because of someone else’s humiliating awkward moment. If it was true, at least ten were born in the span of this moment right now.

My mom’s eyebrows shot up. “Why haven’t you ever taken art classes?”

I rolled my eyes. As soon as my mom glanced back at the drawing again, Mikasa sighed and rolled her eyes too to let me know she agreed. My parents were far too obsessed with how perfect her daughter was.

“Seriously, Mikasa. This is a shame. You’re phenomenal. You need to take some classes in college.”

I blushed some more, this time for a different reason. I smiled, and just as soon bit down on my lip. My mom was telling me what a talented artist Jean was. She thought, although she didn’t realize it, that his art was good enough to pursue in college. 

I couldn’t hold back my grin. Mikasa saw. 

She cleared her throat. My head snapped up. Her eyes widened and she tilted her head, just the tiniest bit – my mom probably thought she was doing it so that her hair would fall out of her eyes – in the direction of the lube. I winced again.

Yeah, sorry, Mikasa. Can’t explain that one away can ya’?

And Mikasa gave me this look like _yeah, watch me._

“Is that my Vaseline?” Mikasa asked. 

I arched an eyebrow at her. Was she really going there? 

“Uh…yeah?” Sure? Apparently? I had no idea where she was going with this or if I responded the way I was supposed to.

“I told you to buy your own Chapstick,” she replied.

“What?” 

My mom squinted at her and then at me, like she knew we were scheming but still wanted to see where this was going. 

“Chapstick. Buy your own,” Mikasa repeated, glaring at me because I wasn’t understanding her. My mom thought she was glaring because she was mad at me for stealing her stuff. 

Damn, Mikasa. You’re fucking _smooth_.

“Oh,” I blurted, covering my mouth because I was starting to smile and didn’t want to give us away, “Oh! Right! Sorry, I uh…haven’t gotten around to it yet…”

Then Mikasa walked into my bedroom, around my bed, picked up the lube I used on my ass, and walked out of the bedroom with it. My mom grabbed on to her shoulder just before she got too far into the hallway. Mikasa stared at her with her best I’d-rather-watch-a-full-tub-of-water-slowly-evaporate-over-the-course-of-thirty-days-than-explain-this-simple-situation-to-you face. 

“What?” she asked.

“Should you be using that as Chapstick?” my mom asked.

Mikasa glanced at the Vaseline, but didn’t actually read any label. “It says right on the back of the bottle it can be used as a substitute for Chapstick…”

My mom stared at her, furrowing her eyebrows. She tilted her head.

“It’s winter. My lips are really chapped. A bottle of this lasts longer than a tube of actual Chapstick. I don’t ever lose it, and it’s shiny. It’s basically cheap lipgloss.”

“You don’t wear makeup…” 

“Because makeup isn’t cheap.” Mikasa shrugged. My jaw dropped and then I right away snapped my teeth together, trying not to look shocked when my mom glanced at me to make sure she wasn’t delusional and I was witnessing this too. I nodded like I knew all along Mikasa used Vaseline as Chapstick. 

Obviously, she does, mom. Don’t you? 

“Well! Goodness, Mikasa, all you had to do is ask,” my mom cried, grinning for her imaginary cameras. “You don’t have to buy your makeup yourself. I’ll go to Target right now!” 

Mikasa looked over her shoulder at me as my mom wrapped an arm around her and guided her out of my room. 

I clasped my hands together like I was praying, and bowed my head like I would in a church. She rolled her eyes and laughed. I’d have to seriously thank her later. This might actually call for doing her a favor, like doing all her chores this week or something. This was big. She just made sure, yet again, that our mom didn’t find out I was gay. Now she’d have to go makeup shopping with my overly-enthused mother that had been waiting for this girly daughter to arrive for almost a decade. Then she’d probably have to actually _wear_ the makeup. 

Thank you, thank you, thank you so fucking much, Mikasa. 

…

Around ten Jean slid in through my window. I was at my computer, working on a paper for English class. The sound of him landing on the roof, and his feet hitting the floor was all the background soundtrack to my life now. I smiled. Like hearing my family walking up the stairs, or my dad’s truck pulling into the driveway after work, or Mikasa’s basketball hitting the pavement outside during the summer, this was just part of my life now. It didn’t even startle me. 

His arms wrapped around me from behind. I stood, saving my document and exiting out of it as I did. My feet swiveled so that I could face him.

“Do you have homework?” I asked him.

“Nope.”

“Jean.”

“ _Nope_ ,” he repeated. I wasn’t sure I believed him, but I let it slide because it was already so late and it wouldn’t help him to stay up working on it all night.

Jean tilted his head down to kiss me, and I just about melted into it when I heard mumbling from Mikasa’s bedroom. She’d turned up the volume on her TV for us. Earlier today, after she got back from Target with Mom, I snuck into her room and thanked her for helping me earlier. She handed me the bottle of Vaseline, touching as little of it as possible.

“Don’t ever make me touch your lube again.”

I snorted. “I didn’t _make_ you –”

“Eren, don’t.” She was right. I basically _did_ make her. If she hadn’t come up with an excuse – an excuse I never would have thought of at that – I would have had to tell my mom I used it for…other activities. And she would have still had her doubts. If Mikasa hadn’t turned into her dream daughter at the last minute, my mom might have even realized that the colored pencils, the teen fiction novel, the t-shirt, and the ashtray weren’t mine. If she’d remembered to interrogate me about those things, I would have had to confess. Mikasa didn’t just save my damn dignity today. In a sense that was a little too real, she saved my relationship. 

“Okay,” I gave in, “I’m really sorry for traumatizing you.”

“You better be,” she had said. “Now I have to wear makeup. Mom’s going to teach me how. You’re gay, do you want it?”

I deadpanned, and she giggled into her hand. I was only pretending to be annoyed anyway. Although I’d never admit it, I loved hearing how casually she could say _you’re gay_. It was the same way she’d say _It’s Wednesday_ or _It’s raining_. 

“I’m kidding.”

“Sure you are.” She was. She didn’t have to tell me. 

“I think I’ve earned the right to give you shit after today.”

I had ducked my head, not wanting to admit it, but nodding anyway. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Just as I was about to leave the room, she said, “And Eren…”

“Hmm?” I assumed we were going to have like, a Lifetime channel sister-brother moment, or something meaningful of some sort. But no, this was Mikasa, and I should have known better. 

“You know how to use a condom right?”

“Oh, shut up,” I spit as I left.

She called after me. “They showed you in health class, right? Like, on the banana?”

My bedroom door slamming was my answer, and I’d heard her giggling from her room. 

Now, my lips parted from Jean, and I lead him to my bed. He laid down on his back and I climbed into his lap, straddling him. His hands slid to my hips. It made me shiver, which would have been embarrassing if Jean didn’t look like he was about to go into surgery every single time I straddled him like this. He wasn’t used to it yet, I guessed. So I didn’t have to be either. 

“My mom found the drawing you gave me for Christmas today,” I whispered, splaying my hands flat against his chest. His eyes widened, and he jerked up onto his elbows like he was about to push me off, but I pressed him back down. “My sister told her that she drew it. And now my mom’s framing it. I get to put it up in my room.”

Jean smiled, but I could see something in his eyes darken. He’d drawn it for me, my eyes only, and now my whole family could see it and Mikasa got that credit. I felt bad, but there was nothing I could do. And besides, every time I saw it rolled up in my closet, I felt just as shitty about it. People should see it. They should see what he could do. His art deserved to be framed and hung up on walls. I didn’t want to hide it. 

“My mom thinks you should go to school for art.”

“She thinks Mikasa should,” he whispered.

“Yeah, but she doesn’t know it’s yours.”

Jean shrugged. “I guess.”

“Would you ever think about it?” I asked.

“What?”

“Art school?” 

Jean sighed. “If I had money, maybe. But I can’t afford school. And…I can’t afford to live on an artist’s income either.”

I nodded, knowing that he wasn’t telling me the whole story. He didn’t need to. One time a few weeks ago, Jean came over crying. He wasn’t beaten, but he’d gotten in a fight with his mom over his dad. Jean told me that he was always trying to convince his mom to leave him, but that she wouldn’t because of money. Other shit too, but mostly money. Jean believed that if he ever wanted his mom to leave his dad, he would have to be able to support her. Sure, she had a job, and being a teller at a bank wasn’t so bad, but it wasn’t enough either. 

“You’d get financial aid,” I told him. 

“Yeah.” By his tone, I could tell the discussion was over. It wasn’t fair of me to talk about it with him anyway. I didn’t know what I was going to do after high school, after all, and he had three more years to figure it out when I only had two. 

“Hey,” I started, hoping I could drag him out of this slump before he spent the rest of our evening together in a grouchy ass mood, “Spring break is coming.”

He arched an eyebrow. “So?”

I bent downward so that my lips were just a few inches from his. His fingers tightened on my hips. “That means we have five days alone. No parents. No school. No homework.”

My hands slid underneath his shirt so that he would understand what I was implying. 

“Um…so you,” he stammered. Clearing his throat, he licked his lips and squirmed underneath me for a second. To be an asshole, I pressed the weight of my body down on him. “So you, um…want to…?”

“Do you?” 

He squinted at me, and blinked a few times like he couldn’t fathom why I would ask him that. “ _Obviously_.”

I grinned. Since the first night I’d brought it up, we hadn’t had any opportunity to again. My parents were always home, and he couldn’t come over during the day. But each night God tested me more than he had the night before. I couldn’t keep my hands of him. Every time I kissed him I kept reminding myself, this was Jean, a guy like me, who wanted to kiss me back. Who didn’t think it was wrong for two guys to be together. Who didn’t think touching me was gross. Hell, he _wanted_ to. His hands roamed over me each night with a desperation to carve memories on my skin with his artist hands and I _ached_ for it. The more he touched me, the more I was reaching for him, pulling him towards me, begging for him. 

The more we pushed things. 

Besides sex…well, there wasn’t uh…anything else left. And as much as I loved everything else we’d done, I knew what I wanted. I wanted him. I wanted to be his first. He’d never forget me if I was his first. 

Jean’s hands slid under my shirt now too. He rolled me over so that my back pressed into the mattress. My legs wrapped around his waist in a way that was habit now. As usual, Jean’s fingers were threading through my hair. I could tell something was wrong, something he wasn’t comfortable saying out loud. A crease deepened between his eyebrows, barely visible now that the only source of light, my computer screen, had gone dull. Stretching, I reached to flick on the lamp on my nightstand. 

Jean winced at first, but the light only barely illuminated his face. There weren’t any bruises on it, or even cuts at the moment, and I cherished the days – even a week at a time, if we were lucky – that he went without any injuries. My fingertips trailed across his face.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” I demanded.

“Nothing.”

I sighed. “Do you really want to start lying to me _now_? If you wanted to lie to me about shit, Jean, you shouldn’t have let me know you first.”

He smirked. “You think you know me?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Oh, really, Jaeger? All of me?” 

I didn’t budge. “What, like it’s hard?” 

His grin broadened, and I knew he caught my bluff. Okay, it was actually _really_ fucking difficult to know him, all of him, but I did. It had taken a while, and I’d had to work for it, but I did. I knew this boy better than God.

No offense, God. I just assumed with all the time you spent paying attention to all of us, I spent only on him.

Jean leaned in close enough to me that his nose brushed against mine. “I’ve gone easy on you.”

“Sure you have.”

“I have,” he said, “If I lied to you the way I did to everyone else…well, you’d be fucked then, wouldn’t you?”

I bit my lip, too stubborn to admit he was right. “Shut up. I know you better than you know me.”

The moment I said it, I regretted it. There were better ways to get back at him than lie to him about something like that. I was afraid it would hurt him, make him feel like an inadequate boyfriend, or something…

But Jean didn’t seem fazed. He kissed me. “You’re right.”

“I am?” But I wasn’t, at least I didn’t think so. He knew me about as well as _I_ knew me, so I guessed that meant he didn’t really know me at all. Still, that wasn’t his fault. 

He kissed me again. Then he kissed my cheek. Then my neck. 

Shit. This was how it always started. In about five seconds I was going to be –

Jean’s mouth reached my collarbones. He tugged at my shirt. I pulled it off. He kissed my chest.

“I don’t know you as well as you know me,” he continued.

He was kissing my stomach. My ribs. My nipple. I clasped my hand over my mouth.

“I wanted you to know me. There isn’t much to know, and I didn’t make it difficult for you like I could have. So it’s not surprising you caught on quick.”

I exhaled. His hands wrapped around the waistband of my plaid pajama bottoms. He spread his lips so that his kissing along my hipbones became sloppier. God, it felt so nice. I was just coherent enough to understand that he was distracting me from something, and just intoxicated enough to not be able to pinpoint what it was.

“But you…It’s going to take me years to figure you out. Maybe my whole life.”

I gasped as my heartrate peaked and his mouth began making me forget. It was just kissing, right now, but it was so sweet and the anticipation for what was to come kept me in a panic. My fingers clawed in the sheets and I tried –

You hear me, God? I _swear_ I am _trying_ to remember, this is _not_ my fault. It’s this asshole’s fault right here and –

“I don’t really give a fuck how long. I’ll take my time with you,” Jean interrupted my prayer to God, and when Jean’s mouth took all of me in I swore to him, begged to him, instead. 

Jean was out of words, and I was out of breath.

… 

March 3, 2015 

Spring break is in a few weeks. Mikasa’s birthday is during spring break. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if she managed to forget her own birthday, or that she had told me her birthday a while back, or that boyfriends sort of…DO stuff for their girlfriend’s birthday. 

I don’t know what to do. I’m already drawing something for her…but that just doesn’t feel like enough.

By then, we’ll have been together three months. We’ve never even gone on an actual date. We haven’t even told anybody. I know, I just KNOW that means something to her. I know she still wants me to…like, PROVE we’re actually a thing. She wants what everyone else gets to have…

And I want to give it to her. Somehow. I don’t have a car, but I know exactly where I’d take her. She’s already asked me if I want to

Like I somehow wouldn’t want to. It’s like she’s forgotten all the other times I’ve

That we’ve done

It’s as if she thinks I’m suddenly not attracted to her anymore, like overnight I suddenly stopped being attracted to 

Fuck I hate writing in this Goddamn journal. I should have quit when

It’s filled with 

FUCKING anyway. I have to do something. I have three weeks before spring break starts.

I have to plan something. I can’t buy her anything. But there’s got to be something I can do, something more than just kissing her behind her locker door. Maybe in three weeks I’ll be able to gain enough courage to actually tell people. 

I have to if I want to keep her don’t I? 

…

My hands were clamped at nine-and-three, even though my dad told me more than once it was supposed to be ten-and-two, even though I was the one taking driver’s ed. courses every Saturday morning for four hours for the last three weeks, while he took driver’s ed. an eon ago, like, before conversion therapy and braces and lobotomies and all the other torture practices invented that my descendants way, way, way in the future would look back on and gag wondering how the human race could have ever been this fucking stupid. 

My dad was glaring at my fingers as I drove, three miles per an hour under the speed limit on 25th which had, if you happened to give a shit, the matching speed limit of twenty five. 

“What, dad?” I groaned, “ _What_ am I doing this time?”

“Are both your feet on the pedals?” he asked, adjusting his tie with one hand while gripping on to the door with the other. 

I turned my head to stare at him, wondering if he was recalling a time he had dropped me on my head as a baby and maybe for the last fifteen-almost-sixteen years had been waiting for the consequences of such a careless action to occur, because he somehow honestly thought I was stupid enough to think it was a good idea to drive with one foot on the break and one foot on the gas. I’d been driving for weeks. And each drive I had with my dad, it was like I was with an all new dad, who had never driven with me before, and was stock full of worries and criticisms and different ways to duck or grip on to the car and maybe save himself, from the car crash or near-car-crash that hadn’t happened, and wasn’t about to. 

I was going twenty miles per an hour. Even Superior’s laziest citizens could probably run fast than that for at least ten seconds or so.

“Watch the road,” my dad ordered. I faced the road again. There was a car a ways in front of me, going the actual speed limit, and one sort of beside me. He was somewhat driving on the shoulder. “Watch out for deer too.”

Like I’d ever let myself hit a deer. 

“They’re everywhere around here, you know,” My dad continued. “There was one in our backyard a few days ago.”

“They’re always back there,” I said, tapping the brake pedal so that I could slow for one of 25th street’s probably twenty five street lights. 

He turned his head to look at me. His finger tapped the middle of his glasses and pushed them up. “No they’re not.”

“Yeah, they are. Every morning around five. They like the dew,” I said. “You scare them away when you open the garage door.” If I was honest, they weren’t _always_ there. I wasn’t even _awake_ at five a.m. a lot of the time, but every once in a while when I got up to go to the bathroom or hadn’t fallen back asleep after the train… I’d look out my window and see them. One or two would drift through the backyards. They could hop fences like they were ant hills. And they snooped around and ate the grass and cooled down on the dewy lawns until it got hot.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Kind of a stupid thing for me to make up on the spot. Just to like, argue with you, like you haven’t presented me with a dozen more relevant things to argue –”

My dad put up his hand to silence me. “Alright, enough, Eren.”

We drove without speaking for a blissful whole two minutes before my dad sighed, and I could feel one of his dad speeches already eroding my brain cells. Before he started speaking, I flicked on my blinker and drifted into the right turn lane, before turning onto a street that lead toward our neighborhood.

“You know, son,” he started. Good Lord, he was pulling out the _son_. This shit was for real. “Driving isn’t just about safety. It’s about being mature. Becoming a man. It’s preparing you for your future. It’s the first step to becoming an adult, becoming independent, and living on your own. It’s a lot of responsibility.”

“Mmhmm,” I answered, thinking that if this was the mark of my manhood, I must live a miserable life. 

In my periphery, my dad blinked a couple of times and rolled his eyes. Yeah, this was the guy that was giving me a lecture on maturity. 

“Have you thought about that at all?” My dad was trying to hide his exasperation, but he wasn’t succeeding.

“Mmhmm,” I replied. I hadn’t though. Mostly because, what really did it change? I didn’t have a car. I’d still have to ask for the keys every single time I left the house. Sure, I wouldn’t have to walk everywhere now, but honestly, walking everywhere was not the worst part of living in Superior. 

I turned again onto hour road. Seven blocks and I’d be parking this piece of shit and making my escape to my bedroom, where I could safely remain for the rest of the day without being accused of ignoring my family.

“Have you thought anymore about where you’d like to go to school? What you’d like to go to school for?” he asked.

I sighed. “Not especially. I still have two years, ya’ know.”

“Yes, but it’s important to have ambition. Like your sister does. Don’t you want to be like her? Everyone needs to have a goal, Eren. A purpose.”

I shrugged. “I don’t think ambition, and doing stuff you like to do are the same thing. Mikasa likes to do all the shit she does. She doesn’t do it for any purpose, or any future goal. She just likes doing shit, dad.”

So did I. But I couldn’t tell my dad that I liked video-taping deer. I couldn’t tell my dad I liked being isolated in nature. I couldn’t tell him that one day, I wanted to touch every continent away from this fucking place. That wasn’t ambition, and seeing the world wasn’t a goal in my dad’s eyes. Those were fantasies, daydreams, a means of wasting time. Laziness. 

My dad looked at me like he didn’t understand the concept of a passion. A hobby. That sometimes, wasting fucking time just doing shit was exactly the shit you needed to be doing. 

“That’s awfully insulting, Eren. Your sister understands that right now, college is the only thing she should be thinking about. She gets As in all her classes not because she likes working hard, but because she is preparing for her future.”

There was a stop sign, and I slowed down until the car halted. My dad gripped on to the door like he always did, but I suspected it was an act. Earlier when we’d gotten in the car, he’d been holding a cup of coffee in a Styrofoam cup. He placed it in the cup-holder and forgot about it several minutes later. The cup was almost full. I had never sped up too suddenly or stopped too abruptly to have disturbed that cup enough to spill anything. My dad wanted me to think he thought I needed to be more cautious.

I wondered how often my dad thought he was tricking me. How often he thought his PhD. prevented anyone from ever detecting his bullshit radiation.

I didn’t respond, and apparently, my dad took that as an invitation to keep on vomiting up his lecture. 

He chuckled. I wanted to accidently drive the car up over the curb into a sign. 

“You’re sister is preparing almost _too_ intensely. She’s sacrificed her youth. She’s never had a boyfriend. Your mom and I worry.”

The way my dad smiled, I could tell he wasn’t worried. My mom was, definitely, but my dad wasn’t. At least, not as much. I wondered if he’d still be smiling if he knew the truth. If he knew that the reason Mikasa had never had a boyfriend that he knew of had nothing to do with her wanting to be a “good daughter”, or wanting to be “lady-like”, or wanting to abstain and “save herself for marriage” or whatever he was so proud of her for doing.

She was just grossed out by oily, squeaky, horned-up teenage boys. Like, any interest in them God might have saved for her, I ended up catching somewhere along the way.

“Mmhmm,” I responded again.

“But you,” my dad continued, as if it was a curse in his mouth. _You_. “You’re quite the opposite.”

For a moment, even though there wasn’t a stop sign and weren’t even at an intersection my foot ended up on the brake and the car skidded to a near stop just the way my heart did.

“Whoa…hey there,” my dad said, like we were on a horse. I tapped the gas again and shook my head, waiting to hear it. Waiting for him to tell me that he knew I had a boyfriend. “You see a bird or something?”

“Yeah,” I said, “A bird.”

“I should tell you this now,” he said, patting the dashboard, treating it like a horse. “If there’s ever an animal, don’t swerve for it. Run it over. Unless it’s a deer. Slow for a deer, stop if you can, but never swerve. If you hit an animal, it’ll die, but you won’t. If you swerve for an animal, you’ll die, and it won’t.”

My fingernails sunk into the rubber layer covering the wheel as he spoke about me hypothetically hitting a deer, as if he just had to press every single one of my Goddamn buttons today.

“I’m not going to hit a fucking animal,” I spit, “Did I swerve? No. I hit the fucking break. Fucking relax.”

“Watch your mouth,” he said, “Don’t know where you got that from.”

“Probably my biological parents,” I said, “Swearing must be in my genes. You met them. My mom curse a lot while having me?”

“Eren!” my dad yelled.

I sat back in my seat and bit my cheek. We were just a block away now, but I had to pull around in the alley behind the row of houses. As I did, the gravel crumbling under the weight of the car was almost loud enough to cancel out my dad’s heavy breathing. I drove slowly, so rocks wouldn’t kick up and dent the car or crack the glass. 

My parents hated when I mentioned my birth parents. I only ever brought them up when I was pissed, when I wanted to get under their skin and remind them that my traits didn’t come from them. Whatever I was, good or bad, it came from my birth mom and dad and I was just fucking fine with that.

“Your _mom_ ,” he hissed, “and I are worried about you too. You have no ambition in school _and_ no ambition to get a girlfriend.”

He didn’t notice my sigh of relief. Neither of my parents knew about Jean. We were still safe. I bit back my grin as I pushed the garage door opener button and parked the car inside of our garage. 

“Why does it matter if I have a girlfriend?” I asked. 

My eyes met my dad’s, and the garage light that had automatically turned on a moment ago flicked off. My dad and I were surrounded by darkness. Still, his expression was grim, his eyes vacant. I knew exactly why it mattered if I had a girlfriend.

I just wanted to know if he’d admit it. 

If he’d be able to look me in the eye and say, _it matters because if you had a girlfriend we wouldn’t have to wonder if you’re queer anymore._

My dad wasn’t able to say it. 

My dad looked me in the eyes, forced a smile, and said, “It doesn’t. We just want you to be happy. You’re never happy, son. Wouldn’t a girlfriend make you happy?”

I held in my scream. Really, I felt it crawl up my throat, felt the tears sting my eyes, the pinch in my mind telling me to break something. I held it all back, despite the vivid image of me starting the car, putting it in reverse, and bulldozing backward through my garage door all the way to the railroads, and parking the car there. 

I looked right back at my dad and said, “I need to focus on school.”

Before he could respond, I pulled the keys out of the ignition and darted toward our house. 

…

Jean sat in my windowsill with his pencil between his lips like a cigarette, his cigarette in his hand like a pencil, and his journal in his lap instead of me. He wrote here often now, comfortable leaving it open sometimes. I had learned, not because he had told me (although I knew he wasn’t trying to hide it either) that he had two journals. A red one he wrote in at my place, and the leather-bound one he’d been writing in since he moved in. He only ever wrote in that one at home, or on his roof. Sometimes I sat on my own roof across from him, but not often, because when I did that he almost always ended up putting his journal down in favor of grabbing his sketchpad and drawing me. He told me he liked drawing me on the roof almost as much as he liked drawing me in bed. 

“It’s just…what I hate about it is they know. They know there’s something up with me and they just…that’s the only reason they give a shit,” I was saying, trying to put into words what had happened in the car with my dad. He was downstairs right now, with my mom and Mikasa. Their voices were clear coming up through the vents, but between talking to Jean and how little I cared, I couldn’t make out their conversation. My dad’s voice was loudest, and the most frequent. I wondered if he was complaining about me. If my mom was agreeing. If Mikasa was trying to defend me. 

Jean nodded as his pencil and his cigarette switched places and he began writing more shit down. “I mean, at least they give some kind of shit.” 

“It’s not the kind of shit they should be giving.”

He sighed. “Okay, yeah.” He ran his fingers through his hair. His jaw clenched, and his eyes were a little too glassy for how casual his voice was. I couldn’t figure out his issue. I remembered after we… _finished fornicating_ the other night, that there had been something wrong. He still hadn’t told me, and I hadn’t pushed him. 

As much as I wanted to believe everything in his mind or journal was my right to know, it wasn’t. I couldn’t steal his secrets or thoughts. They needed to be a gift I could unwrap and tuck away in a mental safe, to pull out and run my hands over like I did the paper airplane in my nightstand drawer once in a while.

Maybe I didn’t know him as well as I had thought. 

Maybe that shouldn’t bother me so much.

“Which, by the way, he took this drive as another opportunity to compare me to Mikasa. I can’t tell what’s more important to him, me graduating, or me getting a girlfriend.”

“I don’t know why you care what’s important to him,” Jean replied. For a few seconds, there was nothing but the scratching of his pencil against paper. My dad yelled from downstairs, and both of us jumped and stared at the vent for a moment. But it was quiet again, so he looked away from it and I looked at him. 

The smoke wafted out into the foggy evening air as he exhaled through his nostrils. 

I scoffed. “He’s my dad.”

Jean’s head tilted up to look directly at me. He deadpanned. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. I don’t know why you care what’s important to him.”

“Oh, whatever, dude. You can’t – your dad is different. But for dad’s that don’t – don’t –”

“Beat their sons?” Jean asked, his voice becoming venomous.

“Besides,” I hissed, equally pissed now, “You _do_ care what your dad thinks, or you would be out by now.”

Jean slid off the ledge of the windowsill and leaned over the bed so that he was just inches from my face. “I don’t care what my dad thinks of gay people, Eren. I care about not being dead on his fucking terms, okay? I care about not leaving my mom behind alone, okay?”

I cowered under his gaze, leaning back into my headboard and looking away from him. 

He stood up straight, tucking his journal into his sweatpants’ pocket beside his pencil. He squished the cigarette butt out in the ashtray. Finally, he stepped out of the window. 

My lip quivered as I realized that he was going home. 

“Jean,” I rasped. “Jean? I’m – I’m –”

Jean swiveled around on the roof. Before I could even sigh in relief, I saw his glare.

“Here’s an idea, Eren. If you’re about to say sorry for the fucked up thing you just did, fucking _say it_. Mean it. At least get the _fucking_ words out. How’s that sound?” His voice was thick with emotion now. His teeth were clenched together as he spoke and I saw the tears lining his eyes. 

“I’m sorry.” I kept my words firm, as strong and enunciated as I could. I kept eye contact. 

Jean looked away from me though. 

“I’m just not used to …ya’ know…saying sorry. That’s all.” It was a lame excuse. He saw right through it without budging. 

“I get it.” He did, I knew. It was something we had in common, but we were both that way for different reasons. Jean never said he was sorry because he wasn’t, and I never said it simply because I didn’t always realize I was, or that I had a reason to be. 

“Jean, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to – I don’t expect you to come out to your dad. I get why you don’t, I’m sorry.” Even though I couldn’t stop saying how sorry I was now, I knew it didn’t make a difference. Jean would either take the first one as enough, or he wouldn’t take any of them. He knew I was sorry, it wasn’t an issue of reassuring him. It was a matter of whether or not he wanted to accept it.

“Here’s the way I see it, Eren. Your dad, might give a shit about school more, or a girlfriend more. And _you_ give a shit about what _he_ gives a shit about. But he does not, give one measly _shit_ , about what you give a shit about. Do you understand?”

I nodded.

“What’s important to him doesn’t matter, because _he_ doesn’t matter. People who don’t think _you_ matter, shouldn’t matter to _you_ , okay? It’s that easy. That’s how you weed people out of your life. That’s how you get by. You keep people in your life who think you matter, who give a shit about what’s important to you…even if they aren’t always the best at always understanding what that is.”

I nodded again. He was right. He must have learned that from experience. I’d be stupid not to listen. 

Before looking him in the eyes again, I wiped my face so that I wouldn’t feel embarrassed that he made me cry in front of him. Jean’s tears had fallen, but he didn’t bother wiping them away. I didn’t know if he noticed. He never seemed to care if I saw him cry.

We fell silent once more. I had nothing I could add to what he said. He was still mad. When he swiveled around on his heel again, my head ducked so that I wouldn’t have to watch him jump. So that I wouldn’t have to watch him go without looking back.

One second, maybe two passed, when I thought I had lost him. When I thought that we were over, and those two seconds, no matter how short they were, ached with all the pain I imagined I would have had for his absence, would have had for a breakup, if there hadn’t been the scream. 

My sister’s scream. I knew it. The same scream I had buried deep under my ribs the night Mikasa got in a fight with my parents over Armin…had just happened again. 

It was the word, “Please!”

“Mikasa?” I whimpered, wiping the freshest tears of my face.

Jean’s head popped through the window. “Eren?…Was that?”

“Yeah,” I choked, “Yeah, it was.”

Jean’s feet landed on my bedroom floor at the same second mine did. He followed right behind me to my bedroom door. When I stepped out into the hall, he stayed back. One of his arms was extended, touching the paneling of my door just in case he had to reach for me, just in case he had to launch backward out the window quick. 

My mom’s wailing was bouncing off the stairwell, making it difficult to make out what my dad was yelling about.

“Why are you doing this to us!” my dad screamed. Mikasa’s meek voice escaped, but she didn’t even finish a whole word before my dad was screaming at her again. “We give you everything you want! Everything you need! We took you from a home that didn’t want you, a home that hurt you! I would have never done it if I had known that man fucked you up this bad!”

Mikasa cried and I jumped forward, only to be jolted it backward by Jean’s arms wrapping around my shoulders.

“Baby,” he whispered, “baby, you can’t go down there.”

My nails tore at his wrists and tried to pry him away from me but Jean was as solid as a statue. He didn’t flinch, even when my nails dug into his wrists and the back of my ankles bucked against his calves.

“Baby,” he tried again, “I know that voice baby. He’d hurt you.”

“Let me go!” I hissed, still trying to stay quiet so that my dad wouldn’t know ahead of time I was coming to strangle him. His arms only tightened. My ribcage had trouble expanding. Blood was pounding in my ears. The stairwell became a tunnel, my only means of survival, and I reached for it with my entire being but Jean held me back. He was stronger, bigger, accustomed to pain and panic and shutting himself down in time to save himself. He would not let me go down the stairs. 

“Jean,” I choked, “Jean, I’ll fucking kill you. No – no, I won’t fucking kill you. I’ll _leave_ you. I will _never_ fucking talk to you again. You hear me? Never, if you don’t let me go _right now_.”

His lips pressed against my ear. “Sorry, baby.”

“What did we do wrong!” my mom cried.

“What are you talking about, Carla? _We_ didn’t do anything. She – she just wants to hurt us. Is that it? You’re still angry we wouldn’t let you see her anymore?” 

“Armin’s a boy! He’s my boyfriend!” Mikasa cried. “I thought that’s what you wanted!”

“Mikasa, stop this! You’ll find a boy. A _real_ boy. Not – not this delusional, desperate girl with no friends. Can’t you see that? First she sneaks out, then she tricks you into dating her, now she’s trying to mutilate herself! She just hates her parents! I know it doesn’t seem like there are many good boys. Especially after…but you don’t have to turn queer. You don’t have to do this, honey,” My mom reasoned through her sobs. 

“You’re both such idiots!” Mikasa yelled, this time not sounding hurt or scared, but furious. “Hypocrites! You don’t have any _idea_ what happened to me in that house, or who Armin is, or why I love him. You can’t even see that I’m not a fucking lesbian for loving him!” 

In Jean’s arms, I sunk to the floor and he came with me, holding on to my weight and making sure I didn’t make to loud of a thud when I hit the carpet. His fingers stroked my arm. I sniffled. If my parents were angry because they believed Mikasa was a lesbian, or… “turning” lesbian, then this was how they would react to me telling them I was gay.

“Don’t talk to your parents that way!” my dad yelled, “Both you and Eren! So ungrateful! Do you have any idea where you’d both be if we didn’t take you in!”

“What’s the point of taking in a child if you aren’t –” Mikasa started.

My dad screamed, “That’s it, Mikasa! If you don’t appreciate what we’ve given you, and can’t respect our rules, and live by our beliefs in our home, then you can’t be here!”

“What?” my mom cried, “Grisha! Please, we can’t –”

“She can come back when she’s ready to respect this house, this family, and…and for God’s sake, _herself_.”

“Where am I supposed to go?” Mikasa asked.

“You should have thought about that before – before you decided to be with _that_ girl.”

My mom cried some more, to the point that it sounded like a rake was being drug up her throat. My dad’s footsteps faded. He was locking himself in his office for the night. Everything that had just happened was so unreal to me that I wondered if somehow he’d been drinking. If my dad was actually drunk, despite never even buying alcohol. But he wasn’t, I knew. Neither was my mom.

She started begging Mikasa not to go, and Mikasa wasn’t replying. Her footsteps made their way up the stairs, and just as my mom appeared at the bottom of them, Jean ducked back out of sight. It was just me in the hall, staring past my sister into my mom’s eyes. She winced, and I hoped my glare had been tattooed in dreams. I hope she could never shake it. 

She walked away once Mikasa reached the top of the stairs.

“Eren, are you okay?” Mikasa asked, crouching beside me on the floor and offering me a hand. I took it. She pulled me up on to my feet again. 

“You can’t go. Dad is – he’s just mad. He has no idea what he’s –”

Mikasa placed both her hands on my shoulders. Her stare cut me off. “Eren, I don’t want to be here.”

Before I could respond, she turned around and walked into her bedroom. I hovered in her doorway, watching as she opened her closet, pulled out a suitcase, and began plucking shirts off hangers and pants out of drawers. She tossed them into her suitcase until the mound of clothes was much taller and fatter than her actual suitcase. 

“Where are you going?” I asked. Watching her pack made me terrified in a way I didn’t think I’d ever experienced before. She was all I had. She was the only one that knew I was gay, the only one that would accept me or help me if I needed it, if Jean was no longer around. She was my entire family. Without her, it was me against my parents and to make this very, very, very clear: _I would lose_. 

I needed her. But even though my legs were trembling and my heart was kicking and my lungs were burning from the slightest influx of oxygen…I couldn’t ask her to stay, and sacrifice her own comfort, – I knew if I did ask, she would – to make myself more comfortable.

“When I decided to tell mom and dad I thought this might happen. I prepared for it. I’m staying at Armin’s grandpa’s. Please don’t tell them,” she said. 

“But you asked them where you’d go?”

Her eyes became slits. “I just wanted them to have to acknowledge that they’re making me homeless. They don’t know I have somewhere to stay.”

Between grabbing socks and underwear, her phone charger and mangas, she was texting someone on her phone, probably Armin. I wondered how long it would be before my parents took her off our phone plan. She cursed under her breath and said a few other things out loud that she needed to pack as she paced around her room gathering stuff. Her voice was as calm and even as ever, like she hadn’t just been disowned, like it hardly mattered to her at all, like she had prepared to be kicked out since she had first moved in. 

And speaking of moving in…

I sobbed, “What happened to you? What – what was dad talking about?”

She looked up at me. “Don’t. Mom and dad think I don’t want a boyfriend because I’m gay. But I just…don’t look at guys… _people_ that way, and neither does Armin. I’m in love with Armin but we’d never…”

I put my hand up, so that she would know she doesn’t have to explain herself to me. I didn’t care if my sister had a “normal” relationship with Armin, the way my mom did. I just cared that she had a relationship with Armin. 

“Look…the reason I am the way I am has nothing to deal with who I lived with before this. They need someone to blame.”

“But what happened? Did he –did he…?” I couldn’t even think the words. “Your foster parent?”

She shook her head. “No, but mom and dad think he did. I’ve told them a hundred times he never touched me. Not like that. But…like I said, they need someone to blame. They’ve always...I think they’ve always known I’m different.”

I glanced at my feet because I didn’t have the courage to look her in the eye. “Me too.”

“I know. Parents always know.” She shoved her hands into the pile of clothes and mushed it all down with her all her strength until all the clothes she’d gathered were compact. With some effort, she tugged on the zipper until the suitcase finally sealed. She stepped up to me and placed her hands on my shoulder again. “When they find out about you, or when you tell them…however it happens, if you’re still living here they’ll do the same thing to you. Armin’s grandpa already invited you to join me. He won’t turn you away if you ever need it.”

I pulled her into a hug. It felt like I was hugging her a lot lately, which only worried me more.

“Is Jean with you?” she asked, after she pulled away from me. 

I nodded. I thought he was. Maybe he’d gone home. Maybe we were no longer together in any kind of way. He was probably mad at me. Regardless, I didn’t want to worry her. 

“Good,” she whispered. “When mom and dad aren’t home, I’ll visit. There’s a post-it note with Armin’s number on my desk. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

“You can always visit too,” she continued.

“Okay,” I said again, unable to think of much else to say. 

When she pulled the suitcase off the bed and dragged it down the stairs, she turned to look at me and smile.

“Is his grandpa picking you up?” I asked.

She nodded, then turned back around. 

At the last second I called, “I love you.”

And she said it back, while facing our front door at the bottom of the stairs. There was a catch in her throat. My sister and I shared many traits that sometimes made me believe she was always meant to be my sister somehow and one of those traits was that if no one saw us crying…then we could tell ourselves we didn’t ever cry at all. 

The front door slammed behind my sister’s back.

I imagined credits scrolling across my vision. I didn’t know if in my mind this had all been a novel and this was the last page, or if this was just the last page of a chapter, or if it was the ending of the first episode or first season, or if it was part of a trilogy and I could look forward to at least two more heartbreaking endings. I didn’t know if this story would be cancelled or renewed.

In some way no matter what, it was a cliffhanging ending that shouldn’t have to happen. 

“Eren?” my mom called. She appeared at the end of the stairs. I cursed her for popping up at the end of the credits like she was the future hint of a sequel that already looked like something I wouldn’t pay to see.

“What?” I asked.

“Can you come talk to your father and I for a minute?” 

I took one step forward, on instinct. My mom asked me to do something. The first step after being asked something by my mom was to obey. I didn’t even question it most of the time, even if I did give her shit when I could. But this time, I retracted that step and backed up.

“No,” I said, “I can’t.” 

“Eren,” my mom said, shaking her head like I was being the most unreasonable child she’d ever dealt with, “It will only be a minute.”

I shrugged. “Sorry. I’m going to bed.”

“Well, Eren, I’m not giving you an option.”

“Believe it or not mom, you always have a choice. You can always choose to do something that’s right or wrong, and choose not to. You never have to do thing that you know is wrong just because everyone expects you to or because everyone has told you that you don’t have a choice. You chose to disown Mikasa –”

“Good heavens, Eren, is that what you think we did? That wasn’t even close to –”

“And I’m. Choosing. To. Go. To. Bed,” I spit. “I hope you don’t have trouble sleeping tonight, mom. See you tomorrow morning.”

My mom looked at me as if I had disowned her instead, and while I couldn’t walk into her bedroom, carry all of her and dad’s shit out on to the lawn, douse it in gasoline, light it on fire, and invite the neighbors to roast marshmallows over it, she was right. I couldn’t kick her out, but I _had_ disowned her. I had disowned my dad too. 

Until now, I had always felt like I was supposed to be grateful to my parents for wanting me. For choosing me. Unlike other parents, who ended up with whatever child they had, maybe under circumstances they didn’t care for, they had gone out of their way to end up with me and I had always blamed myself for not molding myself into the son they had bargained for. But now I understood that it wasn’t up to me or Mikasa to be what they had bargained for, because we hadn’t asked to be adopted by them anymore than they had asked for a gay son and…well, a daughter they thought was a lesbian, but was actually just…someone who loved a boy no one understood...in ways that nobody understood. 

But the difference between Mikasa and I ending up with parents we didn’t ask for, and my parents ending up with kids they literally did ask for but, you know, with a no-return-policy they didn’t care for…was that it was my parents responsibility to take care of us no matter what, and love us no matter what, and be grateful they got two kids at all…no matter what. 

It was not my fucking job to be grateful for the parenting I received. 

My mom, still staring at me, must have realized that I wasn’t backing down. She scoffed, shaking her head, and walked away. 

“Eren?” This time, it was a voice I had feared I wouldn’t hear again tonight.

I turned around, and Jean’s arm reached through the crack in my bedroom door to tug me by my shirt back into the bedroom. 

…

Tonight, Jean wouldn’t let me sleep in my bed. We had jumped over to his house, because for the first time ever, Jean believed it would be safer for us in his room. I tried telling him that my dad wouldn’t hurt me if we stayed at his place, that my parents weren’t like that, and all he said is “No parents are like that until they are.”

We were in his bed, fully dressed. He was spooning me. His face was nuzzled into my neck.

“What if your mom or dad walks in?” I whispered. His house was silent, but I was already listening for creaks, or stirring, or thuds, the same way I did on nights I’d watched a scary movie. 

Jean kissed my neck. His thumb stroked my arm. “My dad won’t be up until, like, noon tomorrow. My mom…don’t worry about my mom.”

“Why? Wouldn’t she…wouldn’t she be upset if she saw us?” I asked.

He sighed. “Remember the first time I came over beaten?”

“Yes,” I whispered, as if there would ever be a way for me to forget it. 

“My mom and dad are choosing not to know, okay?”

I sighed. So his parents weren’t so different from mine. Maybe Mikasa was right. Maybe parents always knew, but didn’t want to. 

“My parents probably know. But the thing is…they don’t realize that it’s not something you can beat out of a kid, or convince him not to be.”

“So…if your mom came in…” I couldn’t get this off my mind. 

“She won’t, Eren,” he reassured.

We were quiet for a long time while I debated whether or not to talk to him about it, about what had happened at home. He must have heard everything. Hell, maybe even his parents had heard something. I’d never heard my dad scream or my mom cry like that. 

“Eren?” Jean asked, as I started to shake.

I tried to hold in my sob, but the tears gushed out of me and I rolled over to face him.

“The same thing will happen to me,” I told him, “When I tell them about us. I – I never would have thought they’d honestly kick me out. I knew they wouldn’t like it. I knew they didn’t want a gay kid. But like…they act like they’re so cool with gay people, like they don’t care at all if they get married or whatever…it’s just like….why would you accept strangers but not your fucking kid?”

Jean’s fingers threaded through my hair. “When it’s strangers, they can separate themselves from it. They can act like they’re better than gay people because they aren’t gay, and when straight parents end up with gay kids…they don’t get to be better than us anymore.”

I shook my head, staining his shirt with tears. He didn’t acknowledge it. His fingers dragged along my scalp. It was soothing. My heart steadied. 

“They just want to pat themselves on the back for not hating us. They want to believe that they’re such good people for being better than, ya’ know, those ignorant _homophobes_ …” I snorted, even though nothing about it was funny at all. Jean nodded. “They want God to congratulate them for putting up with the freaks,” I mumbled.

Jean nodded again. He kissed my forehead. 

“They don’t even…they don’t even realize that they’re just like the worst of them. That openly hating them and quietly avoiding them aren’t that different.”

“Well, I sure as fuck don’t mind the ones that avoid us,” Jean said. “It’s just as shitty, but at least when they avoid us we don’t end up beaten or dead or something.”

At first, I thought he was bringing up the same argument we’d had in my bedroom. In the bedroom, I had thought he was trying to argue that my parents paying the wrong kind of attention to me was better than neglecting me, or that my parents not loving me as much as they should was better than them beating me.

But really, he wasn’t ever trying to argue that. Just like right now he wasn’t trying to argue that the people who silently avoided gay people were better than the ones that openly hated us.

Jean was just always going to choose the side that left him the fuck alone. Between my parents and his, he’d choose mine because he could be left alone. Between openly hateful gay people and silently avoiding us, he’d choose the latter because they left him alone. He had never been put in a position in his life where he’d rather be surrounded by others than be by himself.

And it hurt, because despite preferring to be alone, Jean was lonely. He didn’t want to be alone. He was choosing what he thought was best for him, what he thought would keep him alive. 

I sobbed again. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

“Hmmm?” he hummed, “Oh…don’t ever bring it up again. I don’t care.”

“Are you still mad?” 

He shook his head. “Stop, Eren, please. I already forgot about it.”

I didn’t speak again. Jean let me cry for a while, just rubbing my back. He didn’t say anything about it. His arms wrapped around me tighter once I’d finally relaxed, hugging all of me to all of him, and he pulled the blankets up to our shoulders. His breath was hot and drawn out against my neck. He was already drifting off. I took the ease at which he fell asleep to mean he believed we were safe tonight. 

…

March 13, 2015

Eren’s sitting on his bed telling me about an argument he had with his dad. I’m trying to imagine what it must be like to be able to talk to your dad. I mean, not that I want to talk to my dad, and not that he can talk to his dad about anything he wants to or anything that matters but…he talks to his dad. He can have a conversation with his dad. Sort of.

He’s angry that his dad is pressuring him to have a girlfriend because they know…on some level or another that he’s gay. But…so do mine. When my mom suspected, she told my dad, and when my dad suspected, he beat the living shit out of me and I had to go to Eren’s house and spend the night for my first time. 

It’s just…I know he has every fucking right to be mad. Hell, I’m mad too. I’m really mad, because they’re shitty to him. But I get mad about a lot of things that I just have to put up with. That are going to happen whether I’m mad or not. Shit I can’t help. And this is one of those situations for him. Nothing he does, no matter how mad he is, can change it. I know he can’t accept that.

Which makes it hard because, I don’t know how to tell him that I don’t care, as long as they’re not hurting him. Anyway I put the words in my head it sounds like I’m an asshole, but he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand that all that matters is making it until he’s eighteen. He hasn’t gotten to the point yet where he’s learned not to give a shit.

And at the same time…even though I want him to turn eighteen so he doesn’t have to deal with them…I’m already dreading the day he does. His sixteenth birthday is in two weeks. In a little more than two years…he’ll leave, and I’ll be stuck with one more year of high school.

I don’t know how to tell him how selfish I am. That I don’t want him to leave, even if it means he has to stay here in a place he hates with people who don’t love him. I don’t know if I’m enough to make him stop giving a shit about his parents. Maybe if I was, if how much I love him was ever enough, after we both graduate we could 

…

March 14, 2015

Eren’s parents kicked Mikasa out. I’m almost as surprised as Eren is. I’m just relieved it wasn’t Eren. I’m glad he didn’t decide to come out to his dad during their fight. I can too easily picture him doing that. Just to get back at him, or doing it out of nowhere without thinking through it. Scares the shit out of me. 

Eren can’t come out now. He doesn’t have his sister anymore. Now more than ever I have to be there for him and be…whatever he needs me to be, because I can’t give him a reason to want to leave me. Neither of us have anyone else.

This morning, before my parents woke up and before I had him go back to his place, he told me that he felt like this was a sign. And I asked him what the sign was. He said he felt like God had just told us to fuck off. 

I’m not really sure what that meant. But I know how bad he wants people to know about us, and how much it must hurt him to put coming out on hold for who knows how long. 

I also know how bad I want to change that, even if it’s just for a little while.


	9. Wrapping Paper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter Eren's parents subtly threaten him, Eren makes up his mind about his entire future all at once, and he and Jean have some privacy on the beach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long guys! 
> 
> (Also, the F-slur is used a number of times in this chapter, specifically in one of Jean's journal entries. Just a head's up.)

March 22, 2015

Eren isn’t the same. I know I keep writing about this, but I can’t get it off my mind. Drawing and reading don’t help. Trying to distract him with a blow job or something doesn’t help either. He’s been distant. I know he can’t stand living there anymore. 

The moment his parents call his name he’s a total smart ass to them. He doesn’t listen to what they tell him to do. If they tell him to stop swearing he swears more. If they tell him to go downstairs and eat he refuses to. They ask him about his grades and I can hear them yelling from downstairs. 

I try to get him to just listen. Whether he likes it or not, everything that happens in his life is up to them. He’s risking getting kicked out, risking getting his computer or phone or ANYTHING taken away including ME. They could find out about ME and if they do I don’t know what I’ll do.

I can’t stand the

He just gets mad at me too. Whenever we’re at school he avoids me. If I come over he doesn’t talk as much. The only attention I got from him recently was when dad threw a beer bottle at my back and the glass left a cut on my shoulder. 

It’s because he’s not just mad at his parents. He’s mad at me too. 

I mean, he’s mad at our situation. And he’s taking it out on his parents and me.

That’s what I have to keep telling myself.

I need to do something, and soon. Now that Mikasa’s gone, I can’t bullshit my other journal anymore. 

I have a plan to make him feel better, though. If this doesn’t do it I don’t know what will.

… 

On Saturday, my parents knocked on my bedroom door, waking me up. Whenever this happened now, I assumed the worst. They’d found out about me, about Jean, and they were going to ask me to move out. In the windowsill sat Jean, staring at the door too, with his journal in hand. He’d paused his writing. His eyes met mine, and I nodded at him to step out and onto the roof while I talked to my parents. 

When I opened the door, both of them were wearing huge grins, so I guessed they still hadn’t found out about the liking-dick thing I had. My eyes flickered between the two of them, waiting for the catch.

“What?” I asked. 

“We have a surprise for you,” my mom said. Her fingers were laced together, pressed close to her chest. She even wiggled where she stood, nearly hopping in the air. My dad adjusted his glasses the way he did whenever he was too good for feeling an emotion. 

“Okay,” I said, drawing the word out. “I have to get dressed.” 

Both my parents hesitated in the door a moment longer. I forced them both to look me in the eyes while I wore my what-the-fuck-do-you-think-you’re-looking-at face. Then they left. I shut the door and called Jean’s name.

He swooped back in through the windowsill. His feet landed like snow on my carpet, not a sound. A habit and a mastery to us both, these days.

“What did they want?” he asked.

“To ‘surprise’ me,” I said, as I swung my closet door open. The first pair of jeans I found were tugged on, followed by the first shirt on the floor. I double-checked to make sure it wasn’t Jean’s. This too had become a habit.

“What the fuck does that mean?” His eyes were on the door, as if he thought their ears might be pressed against it on the other side. 

“I don’t know, but they sure were happy about it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Jean bit his lip. Just as I was about to step out the door, he pulled me into his arms. I hummed against his neck, not wanting to leave his embrace. Everything outside of his arms was infinitely worse and far more boring. 

“Don’t get mad at them.”

I jerked my head back to stare at his face. “I won’t as long as they don’t –”

“ _Eren._ Please don’t get mad at them. Even if they’re mad first.”

“Why?” I pulled away from him. 

Jean sighed, scrubbing his hands across his face. “Can’t you just do it ‘cause I asked?”

The anger that had already started to blow up inside of me popped, and my chest deflated. “Fine.”

He smirked at me and pulled me back into his arms. Then I had to pull away because his lips brushed against my neck, and his breath snuck down my shirt, and his fingers clutched the hemline and it was too early for this.

“Be right back.” He nodded as I stepped out my bedroom door and headed downstairs.

They were waiting at the front door. When my feet landed on the last step they swung it open, and gestured toward it as if to say _time to get the fuck out._ My heart jumped into my throat and at the same time I could have laughed at the formality, and comedic calm over both of them so casually presenting the exit to me.

Is this a joke to you, God? Because it’s not fucking funny.

“You kicking me out too?” I asked.

Both of them deadpanned. My mom was the first to recover. She forced her smile like she was getting her picture taken, and again gestured toward the door. It kind of reminded me of watching _The Price is Right_ as a kid, and there’d be that dolled-up supermodel who waved at, and sort of, like, _almost_ touched all the prizes people could win. She looked like a mannequin and so did my mom. “We have something to show you outside.”

I didn’t ask any more questions. Walking past them through the front door, I made sure not to look excited about whatever they were showing me. I refused to feel excited too. 

And then God was like, _yeah we’ll see about that_.

Because there was a fucking car in my Goddamn driveway Goddamn it! 

To be clear, it was neither of my parents’ cars and not one I recognized and it was parked in our driveway even though we didn’t have company. Next week, I’d be taking my drivers test on my sixteenth birthday. So, no matter how much I wanted to believe that I was misunderstanding what my surprise was, I couldn’t get around it. My parents had bought me a Goddamn car like I didn’t have enough fucking reason to resent them.

“Oh, my God! Holy fuck! You – You guys did not – I swear to God – you _did not_ buy me a fucking car!” I gestured toward the silver Honda Civic like they couldn’t see it, like I’d planted a Honda Civic seed in the driveway months ago and it had finally sprouted and now I was revealing my Honda Civic sapling to them but _oh my God_ I would have rather have gotten this car that way, or any other way, than from my parents who I didn’t want to be grateful to for anything or have a reason to be grateful to for anything. 

My mom jumped up and down. She clapped her hands and squealed into them when she was done applauding. My dad wore a smirk, like he’d beaten me at chess and was quite proud of himself.

“It’s all yours on the thirtieth,” My dad said. 

“Oh my God,” I said again. “I can’t believe – Oh my God.”

The guilt finally sunk in when I realized this car wasn’t mine. Not really. It was, but only now that Mikasa had left. I’d bet my life that they were originally buying her a car, because she’d had her license for two years already and she’d be going to college next year. She never took the bus because her friends always drove her, but when she went to college she’d need a car. 

They had probably been intending to buy a car for months. Saving money for it, but not for me. They wanted me to think so, and they were able to almost pull it off because it was so close to my sixteenth. But this was Mikasa’s car.

“Well?” My mom chirped, “What do you think? You know…we have the college campus to tour in a few weeks. You could drive us there so you know the way when it’s time for you to –”

“College tour?” I blurted, turning my head away from the car to look at my mom. 

“Yeah? Remember? Oh – we were going to take Mikasa. I just thought that –”

“I’m not going to school for two years, mom. Two years. I’m not even – I have no idea what school I’m going to. I have no idea –” I glanced up to the second story of my house. My bedroom faced Jean’s house to the right, so it wasn’t as if Jean could see any of this happening right now from the tiny window that only caught one small corner of the end of the driveway in its periphery. And it wasn’t as if I could see him either, in the one small corner of the window that the sun left a glare on, reflecting the line of trees in my backyard. 

And yet, I looked up because I expected him to be there. Because all my decisions now were actually our decisions. 

“I have no idea,” I said.

“Well,” my mom began, like she’d prepped her speech. Maybe she had notecards talked into her high-waisted jeans. “That’s what the tour is for! To help you make your decision.”

She didn’t finish that sentence even though she thought she did. The ending of that sentence was _to go to that school_. Meaning, the decision wasn’t really up to me. It had already been decided.

“He has to get his license first, of course,” my dad interrupted. “One milestone at a time.”

Something about my Dad’s tone – like he himself had written up a bullet-pointed list of the events that would go down in my life, like he himself was checking them off as we went along – felt like an anvil landing on my shoulders. What other milestones in my life did he have tacked on a timeline? My major? My first apartment? First internship? First job? First girlfriend? First wedding? Second and third wedding, because God knew I’d never last with a woman? 

The weight was too much. My knees went week. I’d spent so long putting this moment off in my mind. Procrastinating my own Goddamn life because the assignments due made me too stressed, too miserable. And now I had Jean, and I could sometimes feel another life, just below the surface of wrapping paper, the shape of it, the weight of it, the feel and size of it in my arms, and I could tear it open at any moment, but I hadn’t. And what if I never did? 

“I don’t want to go to college,” I said, first quietly and then, “I don’t want to go to college!”

My mom actually physically jerked back, and my dad’s eyebrows furrowed as he cocked his head at me.

“Oh, Eren. You’re right. You’re so right. It’s too early to be going on tours and you’d probably rather see it in the fall when –”

“I don’t want to go at all. Ever,” I clarified, cutting my mom off with one thin blade of a sentence. 

My dad laughed the way cashiers laughed when they rung something up and it didn’t beep, and then some old man inevitably made the joke, “I guess it’s free then!”

Because he had to, just to get through the moment without breaking something.

“And I don’t want to go to work tomorrow,” my dad said. “And I want a million dollars. Too bad life doesn’t work that way.”

I didn’t respond. Even though I had no idea what I’d do now that I had decided not to go to college. But I had, without doubt, decided that I wouldn’t be going to college. I wouldn’t go back on my decision. If my parents pressured me – and _oh_ , they would – I’d not go to college even more. I’d go to college a negative amount of days. I would go back in time and decide not to go to college more than once.

“We can take the car back,” my dad said, “If you don’t want it.”

The threat wasn’t subtle in the slightest. Not wanting to go to college = Not wanting the car, in my dad’s mind. My mom had covered her mouth, but her eyes pled with me. The reality that her son wouldn’t go to college was too much to bear in her staged life. 

A match flared inside of me, but I doused it. I’d promised Jean not to fight, and I’d come so close to breaking that promise that it was now bent into a ninety-degree angle. 

It wouldn’t change anything anyways. My parents had made up their minds about my life too long ago to return the milestones they’d invested in.

“No, I want it,” I said, “Thank you, guys. Thanks for everything.”

My voice fell flat, but I hadn’t meant for it to. To make up for it, I hugged my mom because I knew she was dying for one, and because I knew even if she had intended to buy this car for Mikasa, and not me, what she had really wanted all along was just to feel like a good mom who had made her child happy. She wasn’t a good mom, but I loved her anyway. Somehow, after everything, I still wanted to comfort her.

She held me back, tighter than she had in a long time. And for once, I was tired of being angry with her, and tired of being a smart ass, and tired of blaming them for everything.

I just wished, with such immense hopelessness that I almost didn’t bother to string the words together in my head, that things could just be different. That my parents could be different. Or, if neither of those options would suffice, that _I_ could be different. 

Why, God, can’t they be different?

“Thank you,” I said again, before walking past my dad back into the house.

Upstairs, Jean was waiting for me in the windowsill, only half obscured by the house in case it wasn’t me who entered first. When it was me, he stepped into the room.

“What’d they want?” he asked.

“I’m not going to college,” I said.

Jean closed his eyes and shook his head like a bug had flown to close to his nose, apparently caught off guard. “Uh…Okay.”

“Really?”

“Really what?”

“You’re okay with that?”

“I don’t give a shit.” 

I let out a relieved breath, the breath I wished I had been able to let out down there in front of my parents. But they weren’t as important as Jean anyway, so I guessed I should be grateful that he was the one to not mind. And of course he wouldn’t.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Did you tell your parents you aren’t going?”

“Yeah, but they didn’t listen. They bought me a car and – my dad basically told me if I don’t go to school he’ll take the car away.”

Jean shrugged. “You didn’t think you were going to get a car, right?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Then it shouldn’t really make a difference if you don’t have it.”

He was right. So what if they took the car? It would make things exactly the same as they were this morning. No car, no assumption that I’d have a car any time soon, and no real worry about it one way or another. So it shouldn’t matter if the car was taken away.

But, I had the unshakable feeling that my dad wasn’t just threatening to take the car away. He was threatening to take him and my mom away too. Losing my family…I’d spent the last few weeks not caring if they stepped out of my life and never returned but that was when I assumed that wouldn’t happen. Now it felt too possible, and I didn’t want to – couldn’t make myself think about it.

“Are you okay?” Jean asked, staring at me like I’d changed colors.

No, Jean. I’m not. I’m really not.

“Can we uh…do something? Just uh, go somewhere or something?” I asked.

He opened his mouth like he was going to protest, but something about my face must have changed his mind, because he nodded. 

Pulling our jackets and shoes on, Jean and I slipped out through the window. We sat on the roof, because neither of us could go into either of our houses. Jean lit a cigarette and I lay in the crook of his arm. We gazed at the neighboring homes. People scurrying down the sidewalks, dogs barking in backyards, birds flying into trees and chirping, and even in the distance, deer grazing in someone’s yard. The smell of Jean’s smoke filled my nostrils, mixing with the smell of pine. My skin chilled, but I needed it. Like waking up groggy and stepping into a cold shower, it woke me the fuck up, quick and hard.

“I hate my parents. I hate Wisconsin. I hate being in the closet.”

Jean exhaled through his lips, long and slow so that the smoke spilled more than blew. “So what’re you gonna do about it?”

Something about his tone was different than it had ever been. Normally, when I spoke about something like this, Jean became guarded. He hated that I couldn’t cage my temper inside of me the way he could. He hated that I wanted to leave Wisconsin, when we both knew that if I did I’d have to leave him behind. He hated that being in the closet bothered me so much, because the closet had kept us safe, had sheltered us for so long. 

But he asked that question like he was surrendering, and it hurt because in order to make me happy he was willing to make himself unhappy. It hurt in a distant, disconnected sort of way that I was aware of, but was so much a part of me, so much something I was used to that I couldn’t be bothered to dwell on it or change it. The hurt was so much, but from a long ways away so it didn’t seem like it. 

Instead of apologizing like I felt the urge to, I answered, “I don’t know yet. I don’t know if there’s anything I can do.”

And even though I didn’t say it, nor did I mean to imply it, he heard something else. He heard _I don’t know yet. I don’t know if there’s anything_ I _can do._

Which meant that he would think that I thought _he_ should do something about it. I could have reassured him he was wrong, but I didn’t know at the moment if he was. I said nothing. 

Jean let the smoke spill from his lips again. He wasn’t looking at me, or his house or the sky, or even anything. He looked as if his body was not up to him at this moment, and that the only reason he hadn’t slid off the roof or stopped breathing was because he happened not to. “Whatever you say.”

…

March 29, 2015 

I know you’ve been reading this journal, mom. It’s okay. I started writing it for you the morning after dad beat the shit out of me because you told him I was sneaking into Eren’s room. Remember? Dad thought I was a faggot? Well, I am. Don’t stop reading now that you know. Please. 

Everything I’ve written is true, more or less. I tried not to lie to you because for some reason I hate doing it. The only difference is I used Mikasa’s name instead of Eren’s, and had to leave out a lot of unimportant shit and make up a few unimportant things. But the feelings are real. I tried to be real with you about how I felt. How Eren felt. 

The most important thing I didn’t lie about is loving Eren. I don’t know how you felt about everything you’ve read before this. I don’t know if you were happy for me. But you know that I have been happy. Happier than I ever imagined I could be, because of him. Because I love him. 

I want to make you understand how I feel about him, if I can. I know how you’ll see me now. Just a boy who fucks boys, a faggot. And for some reason, to you and dad that means that loving Eren doesn’t matter or isn’t real.

But you must have felt this way for dad once. For someone, if not him. You have to know what it’s like. How impossible it is to stop feeling it, even when you really need to or really want to. That’s how it is with Eren, with other boys. I can’t help it. I can’t make myself not. And it wasn’t anything you or dad did. Dad fucked me up for sure and for good, but he didn’t make me a faggot. 

I guess what I’m getting at here is, you’re my mom, and you love me. You don’t always act like it, and sometimes I don’t know if you really will love me no matter what. But I know that up until now you have loved me and you have wanted a future for me that doesn’t involve getting beaten once a week. 

I want you to keep loving me. I want you to accept, or at least fucking tolerate that I’m gay. That I love Eren. And more than anything, even if you can’t do that, don’t tell dad. You know what he’ll do if you do. And you would only tell him if you hated me, if you couldn’t stand me, if I was the worst kind of person on earth to you, because you know, you fucking KNOW what he’ll do to me. 

If you don’t tell him, you will eventually get what you’ve always wanted. I’ll be away from dad, and I’ll be happy.

I hope that after reading this, that’s something you still want.

Please don’t tell him.

I love you, mom. I swear. 

…

March 29, 2015

I just came out to my mom in the fake journal. I’m shaking, really shaking. I know she hasn’t read it yet. I don’t know when she’ll get around to it. I’m pretty sure she usually reads it in the morning after I’ve gone to school and before she’s gone to work. But spring break starts tomorrow, so she won’t be able to just wait for me to leave. She could risk doing it while I’m at Eren’s, but I don’t know if my mom has the guts for that.

I don’t know when she’ll do it, but when she does, I’ll know. Because even though nothing will change…I mean, best case scenario, nothing will change…everything will be different.

I haven’t told Eren, but he’s in bed sleeping and the only thing that calms me down is watching his stomach fall and rise as he breathes. I want to wake him up. I’ve fucked myself over here, since dating him, because I can’t fucking function without him anymore. I can’t fucking calm myself down or just, get the fuck over something like I used to.

He’s going to be mad at me when he sees the cigarette burn marks on my hands, but he’ll have to understand. He’ll just fucking have to.

I’m doing all of this for him and if he doesn’t

I can’t function without him. 

And it’s his birthday tomorrow. 

… 

Monday morning I woke up to a house that was too quiet and a room that was too bright. My room felt too big. My sheets too cold. I splayed my hand out on what I’d begun to consider Jean’s side of the bed. He wasn’t there. The sun had risen high, or at least, higher than I was used to it being when I normally woke up at around five on school days. My clock read eight AM. 

I knew something had changed between us. He had been so quiet, keeping his distance mentally from me the past week, and especially yesterday. 

I couldn’t think about that though. My driver’s test was in an hour, and I knew my mom would want me to be ready when she got home, because she was already annoyed that she had to leave work in the middle of the day for my test. 

I slid out of my bed, pulling on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Even though I knew I shouldn’t, I felt so hollow inside. I needed something of Jean’s, so I pulled on one of the sweatshirts he’d left laying on my floor even though I wasn’t supposed to. I didn’t care if my mom asked about it. I’d lie, if I had to. But I didn’t think I would. They didn’t pay enough attention to me anymore.

When she showed up, the front door slammed and she yelled from the bottom of the stairs, “Eren?!”

I took one last glance at my window, hoping Jean would materialize on the roof and leap in just in time to kiss me and wish me good luck. And then maybe I’d get my license and we’d pack our things in the middle of the night, and the two of us would run away and drive all the way to the coast. Maybe we’d fine a cheap shack on the shore, and he’d sell his art and I’d do…something. I didn’t know, but something. And we’d somehow make it. And neither of us would ever have to think of our parents again.

But he didn’t, and we didn’t, so I ran down the stairs to head to my driver’s test.

… 

When I got home, my mom sped away without even coming in the house, so that she could get back to work as soon as possible. She wanted to do something for my birthday tonight, to celebrate getting my license, order pizza or whatever she needed to do to make it seem like she was being a good mom. I told her not to worry about it. She’d ignore it, but at least I tried. 

I ran up to my room, nearly tripping up the stairs as I did before flinging open my bedroom door. 

Jean sat in the windowsill. I let out a breath I didn’t know I had been holding. Without him sitting there, my window just looked wrong. Like a wall that had been painted, and covered in photos. But the wall faced the sun, and the color of the wall had faded, all except for the spans of it protected from the photos. But when the photos were taken down, nothing but the tracks of the frames were left on the wall. Even though they were in vibrant color, nothing compared to the photos. I didn’t love looking out the window like I used to, because I’d rather look at Jean.

“Happy birthday,” he said. His fingers pinched the pages of the book he was reading under his thumb, and a page at a time he let them flick out from underneath his fingertip, like shuffling a deck of cards. His thumbs were stained silver with graphite from drawing earlier. Sunlight reflected off strands of his blond hair, glaring against his pale skin and making him look ethereal, like a vivid daydream or a mirage, blurred around the edges. I felt as though the closer I got to him, the further away he’d seem. Or maybe he’d just dissipate altogether, and I’d be left stranded in the desert. 

“Thanks,” I choked. 

“How’d your test go?”

“I passed.”

He turned his head to glance at me. “Yeah?”

I nodded. First, he set his book down on the floor. Then he stood up and walked toward me, placing his hands on my waist and kissing me. 

“I drew you something. I’ll give it to you after our date.”

“Our what?” 

“It’s your birthday. You got your license, and a car, and neither of your parents are going to be home until later. We’re going out.”

“Yeah?” A grin spread across my face before I could stop it or ask what the catch was.

I didn’t need to ask, because in the next second I knew. He held my hands, and I stroked them with my thumbs like I always did. My thumb brushed against something rough and tender. Jean winced. He had circular burn marks on his hands.

“Jean? Jean, what the – what the fuck?” I asked, backing away from him. I knew things weren’t right with us, I knew he was frustrated with me lately for not being able to control my temper with my parents, but this? 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I can explain. I –”

“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. If I had known – if you had just told me you were thinking about – I won’t fight with my parents anymore, okay? I promise. I won’t back-talk them or anything and I won’t bring up Mikasa to them either. Are you –”

“Eren. Baby.” His hands came up to either side of my face so I’d stop talking. “It’s not that. It’s – just drop it for now.”

“How am I supposed to –”

“Because I asked. Just do it. For me.”

“Are you going to do it again?”

“I did it without thinking. Couldn’t stop myself. I’m in control now.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Now get ready for our date.” Jean slumped into my bed, lacing both his hands behind his head and crossing his ankles, making a show of waiting for me. Because he was already in a black and white flannel, with the sleeves rolled up that were torn around the hems, and the first two buttons undone, but not on purpose – although he was exactly the type of asshole who would do it on purpose – because the first couple buttons were missing. This flannel, an oddly formal shirt compared to the rest of his T-shirts and hoodies, was his version of “ready” for our date. 

“I don’t have any money,” I told him.

“We’re not going to need it.” 

I arched an eyebrow at him, but all he did was smirk. 

…

When we left my house, I got in the driver’s seat of my car, but Jean continued walking through my yard and then his. I called to him from the car, with the window rolled down. “Where are you going?”

“Be right back.”

I waited, thumping my palms against the steering wheel, adjusting the mirrors so that I could see everything surrounding me like a good student driver, buckling and unbuckling myself, and sighing because my stomach had flipped inside-out the moment Jean had mentioned a date. I had no idea where we were going, only that if it wasn’t in either of our homes, it was public. Even if it was private, he was taking the risk someone would see us.

A few minutes passed before Jean walked back out of his house carrying a brown paper grocery bag, apparently somewhat heavy because his arm tensed while carrying it.

He slid into the passenger seat. The bag thudded against the floor mat.

“Let me be clear,” he said, pointing at the bag, “I’m not being romantic. This isn’t a fucking picnic. This is me, your unromantic boyfriend, being broke as fuck on your birthday.”

I glanced at the grocery bag, pulling one of the paper handles so that I could see inside. The bag was stuffed full with boxes of candy, a bag of Cheetos, a bag of Doritos, and a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew, my favorite. Tucked to one side, from what I could tell was a blanket and his sketchbook. If anything else was in there, I couldn’t see it. 

I stared at the bag, then at Jean, who was obviously trying to send me a telepathic warning to shut the fuck up. Which I was going to ignore, obviously, because his eyes were also pleading with me, searching for approval without really knowing it, afraid I’d reject him even though this was, by far, the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me.

No offense, God. Being born and existing is cool and everything but life would be… _nothing_ without Jean.

“You…big… _idiot_ ,” I choked, unable to completely swallow the sob rising in my throat. I pulled him by his collar toward me, so that I could kiss him, like a really good and sloppy kiss, the kind that makes him hard in an instant and ruffles up his hair and leaves him so flustered for a minute that he can’t even look at me. When I pulled away, I said, “I love it. I fucking _love_ it. I love _you_ , you romantic, gay, _idiot_.”

Jean grumbled and looked out the window away from me. “Shut up, what did I just fucking say? I’m just fucking broke or I’d be buying you Taco Bell right now.”

“Mmhmm, sure,” I said, “And where did you get all this?” I gestured to the bag.

“I asked my mom to buy it a while ago. She thinks I needed it for my home ec class.” As he spoke, his thumbs traced his burn marks. Pulling his hand away from the burn, he looked at me. 

“We better go if we want to get back before my parents get home.” This wasn’t what I wanted to say. I wanted to talk about his mom some more. I wanted to ask him why he hurt himself. Why he seemed so down today, underneath it all, like he kept swallowing back his sadness with every word he spoke. “Where are we headed?”

He smiled, almost. More like the shadow of a smile, easy to miss if I wasn’t looking for it. “Take me to The Point.”

…

The parking lot for the beach I went to most often on the lake was a ways away from the beach itself. I parked as far away from the two other vehicles in the lot as possible. Jean and I piled out. He carried the bag, walking behind me down the sand pathway that was only a pathway because so many people had decided this specific stretch of land was the shortest and the flattest way to get to the beach. 

Sand seeped into my socks as we neared. The waves weren’t really waves, so much as large ripples that licked the sand, foaming at the tips like streaks of saliva. The sand itself was so littered with broken beer bottles, cigarette butts, fast food wrappers, and twigs from the shedding trees growing nearby, that walking barefoot was a health hazard and possibly a death wish. 

The only redeeming quality for me was the view from a distance. Tug boats and sailboats glided along the waves further out. Little houses painted pastel pinks, blues, and yellows, cropped up on the hill on our left, separating Wisconsin from Minnesota and Superior from Duluth. The trees further down the shore were herded close together, budded with green leaves and on some of them even flowers. The sky was bluer here than it was in the rest of state, and I could feel how close God was to our atmosphere at that moment. I’d never been here without any clouds and dozens of other people surrounding me. The people who must have parked the cars in our lot were nowhere in sight.

I could only walk so far before Jean would have to tell me what we were doing. My stomach now was not only inside-out, but my lungs were wearing it as a sweater. I inhaled and exhaled, trying to calm my breaths. Anyone could see us. No one was here, but he hadn’t known that. He saw the cars and didn’t panic. He didn’t even say anything. Anyone could walk up to us, two guys clearly having a fucking picnic on the beach together, a beach you couldn’t even swim at because the lake was the temperature of a snowman’s asshole, and Jean didn’t even seem worried about it.

“What now?” I asked him.

He stopped, and then I stopped, and then he pulled the blanket out from the bag. He tossed one end of it to me, and we spread it out on the sand. He sat, and I sat, and then we stared at each other.

“You want your gift or you want to eat?” he asked, like he’d asked _You want mustard or ketchup on your hotdog?_ He said it like this didn’t even matter to him, and yet, somehow I knew it did. He kept rubbing the back of his neck, and his fingers tugged at the end of his sleeves. Now he pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one, since I’d told him he couldn’t smoke in the car. The cigarette trembled between his fingers.

“Gift.”

Jean tugged his sketchbook out of the grocery bag. He flipped right to the page like his hands had the motion memorized. I took it from his hands.

And I saw more than the drawing. I saw Jean, climbing out of my bed – our bed in the middle of the night, holding a flashlight in one hand so that he could cherry-pick the exact right color to match the bridge, the rust, the faded pavement of the one-lane road, and the autumn leaves of the valley trees surrounding the glass water as he drew. I saw him awake still when the sun rose sitting in the windowsill, shading the clouds above the valley. I saw him shaking his hand every five minutes, because his knuckles had become sore while he perfected the light glaring off the water, the blurred distorted shapes of the trees in the reflection. I saw him sharpening his pencil, dragging the lead around the outline of the two boys’ silhouettes, one shorter than the other, standing on his toes. Both of their arms reaching up, covering each other’s ears as they kissed. 

“You drew it,” I said.

He exhaled smoke. “Do you like it?”

I almost shook my head, out of annoyance and frustration more than anything, because of fucking course I liked it. I loved it. If I never had to look at anything else ever again, I wouldn’t mind if it was this. The drawing was quiet, and soft, and gentle the way Jean was when the lights were off and it was just me and him, and he had no one to impress. 

“You know I do.”

He gave me a cocky grin, but his eyes were bloodshot and his hand was still trembling and I knew it had been forced. “And that’s only half your gift.”

“What?” 

“Here,” he said, pulling out another small rectangular gift. It was even wrapped. Poorly, of course, with too much tape and too much air tucked inside the paper so that it crinkled as he held it. He tossed it in my lap like it meant nothing to him, but he wouldn’t have wrapped it if it didn’t.

My fingers tore it open, and in my hands I held a picture frame. Inside was a picture of him. He looked a little younger in it. Thinner arms, narrower chest, smoother cheeks unaccustomed to shaving and an undercut he hadn’t quite grown into yet. He was standing on the porch of a house I didn’t recognize leaning against a column, wearing shorts and a tank-top like the day he’d moved here. His eyes were squinted up because he was smiling at the camera, like, really actually smiling. 

“Mom took the picture,” he explained, “It’s our house in Nebraska. We’d just moved in. My dad hadn’t hurt my mom in a while and she’d just gotten a job that had paid more money. I was happy that day, so when my mom asked to take a picture I gave in and let her.”

“Thank you.” I couldn’t quite find my voice, so I kissed him long and hard and nothing like in the car. I wanted him to still feel my lips on him tomorrow. “Thank you, Jean.”

He tossed his cigarette but in the sand and laid back on his elbows, staring at the water. “I know you’re gonna leave Wisconsin when you graduate. And I thought you might want it. Sorry I couldn’t get a newer one. That’s the only good one I have.”

“What makes you think I’m leaving when I graduate?” 

“Don’t fuck with me like that, Eren. You can’t stand it here and I can tell. Anyone could.” 

“That doesn’t mean I’ll leave you.”

“Don’t give me hope if there isn’t any,” he warned, and his voice was shaking as he said it. “I can’t deal with it. I’m trying to – deal with the fact that you’re gonna leave. I just – you know, don’t want you to forget about us.”

I stayed quiet for a long moment, because I couldn’t promise him I’d stay no matter how much I didn’t want to leave him behind. If I couldn’t promise him, then that meant I was giving him false hope. At least, potentially giving him false hope, and I couldn’t hurt him that way. 

I remembered the night I tried to have sex with him for the first time and Mikasa had interrupted. Even then, I’d been worried he’d forget me, and here he was, worrying I’d forget him. 

My eyes teared up, and I wiped them away quickly so Jean wouldn’t notice. 

Everyone believed that no one married their first love. I didn’t think I believed that. I’d heard too many people in movies, TV and even real life say that no one ever got over their first love. I knew I couldn’t get over Jean, not really. Everyone also believed that time healed all wounds, but I didn’t believe that either. 

Time made people forget. If I ever wanted to get over Jean, I would have to forget why I loved him, what it _felt_ like to love him, or I couldn’t possibly hope to get over him. Not when I felt like however far I moved away, however little I talked to Jean anymore, however much time had passed, I’d still catch a whiff of smoke, or smear graphite on a page, or hear the sound of pages flipping and I’d turn my head around on extinct expecting to see Jean. He had given me pieces of him, and I couldn’t just donate them or throw them away. They were part of me now. 

Jean, I won’t forget you. I won’t, I promise. 

I placed my hand on his stomach, and inched my fingers toward his belt. I knew I was emotional, I knew I was scared of losing him, I knew we were on a beach and we had to be home before my parents were, and I knew I probably shouldn’t do this but I did.

“Can we?” I asked.

He knew exactly what I meant. His eyebrows shot up. “What, tonight?”

“No. Now. I need you now.”

His eyes kind of glazed over at that, and he glanced around the beach to make sure we were still alone. We were. 

“O-okay, yeah.” His hand dug to the bottom of his bag, past all the junk food. He pulled out the lube and condoms I’d bought. 

“You little shit,” I said, forcing my voice to be teasing so that he wouldn’t know how hard I’d held back more tears. “You planned this.”

“Fuck you, I did not. I just…you know. I thought. In case.”

“Sure you did.”

“I did!” His fingers struggled to tear open the plastic-wrap covering the box of condoms. 

“Mmhmm.” I opened up the lube while he tore the box open. 

“You wanna do this or not?” As if he’d honestly give up fucking me just to make a point. 

I didn’t even justify his question with a response. I went right into kissing him. We fumbled with our clothes, even though we were used to this part. And there was no breathless inhale when our chests pressed together like the first time. But Jean’s hands spread over me, and they were familiar with my skin, comfortable with the shapes of my bones underneath my muscles, touching me like parchment so that his fingers wouldn’t mark me. 

When we were naked, I shivered and shivered and couldn’t stop shivering because I was in public and I was naked and I couldn’t believe it. Jean went down on me like he always did when using his fingers. He didn’t even need to ask me if I wanted to bottom or not, because I’d made it… _clear_ in the past what I liked. I squirmed under his touch, unable to keep my hips still even now because he could play me like an instrument. 

I slid the condom on for him when he was done and he situated himself between my legs. 

It took way more effort than I believed either of us deserved to actually get him inside of me, and I blame God, because what the fuck God, what gives? Couldn’t you have made this a little easier? We’re already gay, okay, so you might as well. 

But once he sunk in, Jean moaned and his eyes literally rolled back. “ _Ohhh_ my _God_ , Eren. Fuck. Fuck, oh my God. Don’t fucking move, I swear.”

I snorted and he glared at me, because we both knew he was already close and I shouldn’t have found that funny but I so did. 

“Shut up.”

“I’m sorry,” I said through my hand, hiding my grin. 

“No you’re not.” 

I sat still, not just for him, but for me, because it fucking hurt. Really hurt. I could pretend it didn’t a little bit because Jean was somehow being both as sexy as I imagined him and as dorky as he probably feared he’d be. I felt both the need to laugh and beg him to get on with it, but I couldn’t. 

Eventually, my body relaxed and Jean had recovered some. I patted Jean’s shoulder and he looked into my eyes to make sure that meant what he thought it meant. His lips pressed to mine, and our limbs tightened around each other. Jean began thrusting. 

 

The truth was that I’d spent most nights of my glorious teenage years thinking about this:

1) Thinking about someone’s hands on my stomach, my thighs, and in my hair.

2) Thinking about someone’s weight on top of me, and strong arms supported on either side of me.

3) Thinking about running my hands down someone’s back.

4) Thinking about making someone moan my name.

5) Thinking about making someone come inside of me, after feeling hard thrusts into me for as long as I could take it. 

 

But I’d never imagined this: 

1) Getting elbowed in the face.

2) Hiccupping in the middle of a kiss.

3) Tickling him accidentally and hearing the most embarrassing squeak leave his mouth. 

4) Gluing myself to him with our sweat. 

5) Wincing when my leg cramped and making him worry he’d fucked something up. 

 

All of the above had happened. Both what I thought and what I had never imagined. This shit was fucking _gross_ and _awkward_ and borderline _killing-the-Goddamn-mood_ and it was so much better than I could have ever imagined. But only because it was with him. Because Jean was so Goddamn attentive to me, so patient, and so persistent. He was nervous, and second-guessed and third-guessed and fourth-guessed and fifth-guessed himself, but he was good. He was actually so good. 

We lay together afterward, cuddling close. He was cold, he said. He was too lazy to get dressed yet, he said. But I knew he wanted to be close to me. His lips pressed into my back, my shoulder blades and my neck. His hands were still all over me afterward, he couldn’t stop touching me. 

“I want to be with you forever,” I told him.

“Then don’t leave.” His breath tickled the nape of my neck.

“I won’t leave you. I promise.”

Arms wrapped tighter around me, hugging me close to his chest. He kissed a path across my shoulder. Then he rolled onto his back, and tugged me by my arm so that I would lay on top of him. He kissed me once before handing me another condom. “We don’t have to be home for another hour.”

“Okay.”

No more words were needed. 

… 

March 31, 2015 

Eren promised he wouldn’t leave me yesterday. I keep repeating it in my head, almost like I don’t believe myself but he did. He told me after we 

Fuck, right. We had sex too. 

Okay, we had sex and we did other stuff. He saw the burns, but I managed to distract him for now. We went to The Point. I gave him his drawing and the photo. He cried and everything, but I pretended not to see it. After we had sex we went back to his place. We binged on all the shitty food I had mom buy for our date and watched Netflix until his parents came home and demanded he go downstairs and eat dinner with them for his birthday.

We did a lot of shit and it was all awesome but

I mean we FUCKING HAD SEX THOUGH. 

I fucked him the first time. And I swear I believed in God there, for a while like, that was how fucking amazing it was. AND I made him come. I was actually so terrified I wouldn’t, but I did, and I have never been more The Man in my life than I was then. 

He fucked me the second time. My ass is still sore, but it was worth it to see Eren fall apart and to feel him like that. Never thought about it, not like Eren. He always wanted to bottom but I never did and then…it was just so worth it with him. 

I want to again. I want to all the time now. I can’t get close enough to him. 

Especially because I almost believe I’ll have him forever now. He promised he wouldn’t leave. I have to believe him. I want it more than anything. 

…

March 31, 2015

It’s okay, Jean. Come talk to me when you read this. Please.


	10. Notice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter Jean finds out it's okay, Jean and Eren defend themselves, and Eren's life changes forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being so patient everyone!
> 
> (Trigger Warning: The use of the homophobic F-slur is used quite a bit in this chapter. Also, the Q-slur.)

April 1, 2015

It’s April Fool’s Day, which is enough to make me believe this is somehow all a joke. 

My mom finally read the letter I wrote her in my fake journal. She asked me to come talk to her. The second I read it, I turned to jump back over to Eren’s. But I couldn’t go to Eren’s because I still hadn’t told him about coming out to my mom, or burning myself because I came out to my mom, or any of that. 

So I just stood in my room for a really long time staring at the paper and panicking because I couldn’t go to Eren and I couldn’t go to my mom and I couldn’t leave my room.

The only reason I didn’t fall asleep standing up in my room was because my mom knocked on the door. I said, “Come in.” What else could I do? She knew I was home. She wouldn’t have knocked if she didn’t know I was home. That made me wonder if she had known all along. I mean, how many times had she heard me jump home?

She came and sat down on my bed. I couldn’t look her in the eyes, so I just shut the door. 

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” she said.

Those words freaked me out so bad I shivered. Like, nothing good could follow that up, right?

I crossed my arms. I don’t know why. Not like I was going to intimidate my mom, but I wanted to look like I wasn’t scared. And I wanted to cover my burns. “Yeah, why?”

She patted the bed. I shook my head. That made her sigh, but she kept talking. “You’re right, I told your dad you were sneaking into that boy’s room.”

“His name is Eren,” I said. Not that it would probably ever matter to her or make a difference, but I had to say something.

“Eren. Right. I told your dad that you snuck into his room. But I did it to protect you.”

I laughed at that and shook my head. I knew she wasn’t lying. But how could she POSSIBLY have thought that would protect me? For all my life I’ve loved my mom, and she’s one of my best friends, the second most important person in my life, I swear. But sometimes she just – I’ll be as nice as I can. She just doesn’t get how the world works sometimes.

But at the time I wasn’t trying to be nice. “Yeah, okay, mom. Sure you were.”

Surprisingly, my mom didn’t look hurt. She looked pissed. “I WAS. Eren has a sister, doesn’t he?”

I told her he did, though I didn’t get why that would matter.

“Your dad thought you were sneaking into HER room.”

I couldn’t respond to her for a second. “What do you mean?”

“Your dad heard you jumping over there. He’d seen the girl driving home from school. Knew she was pretty. And he thought you were sneaking over there to see her…You understand? He was mad you’d risk ‘getting some girl pregnant like he did’.”

At that, I winced. My mom had me when she was seventeen. Which, isn’t as bad as fucking fourteen like it would be if it was me but…it still wasn’t easy for her. Then she got married to my dad at eighteen, because his family was wealthy, and he was going to college at the time, and he wasn’t a drunk yet, and my mom loved him and it looked like everything would be fine. Except for getting accidentally pregnant, and everything. 

“Oh.” Brilliant response, I know. But I had too much on my mind and I already felt so bad.

“I told him you were going to see Eren. I thought if I told him that, he wouldn’t be angry anymore. Or at least, not AS angry. He’d think you made friends with the neighbor and were just sneaking over there to hang out. I didn’t know he’d – He never even hinted that he thought you were – but I don’t think he knew. He just wanted to justify getting so angry.” My mom teared up while talking and now I was really feeling like a piece of shit. It all made sense. And why did I ever assume my mom wanted Dad to find out about me anyway? Even if I’m gay, and even if my mom’s never really sounded supportive of gay people before, she’s sure as hell never wanted Dad to hurt me. 

“Afterward, I realized what I’d done. And your journal started sounding different. Less like you. So I knew something had changed. And it wasn’t just that you thought I didn’t want you near Eren.”

I swallowed. “You knew? All along?”

“That you were gay? Or lying to me?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Either.”

“I wouldn’t say I KNEW you were gay. But…I wondered. And…yes, I knew you were lying to me. About what, I wasn’t really sure. I knew it had something to deal with Eren and Mikasa. That’s all.”

Neither of us said anything for a while. I finally sat down on the bed. My legs had gone to sleep and suddenly I was exhausted. I looked at my mom. “So, you don’t care?”

“That you’re gay?”

“Yeah.”

She hugged me then and I hugged her back and I couldn’t believe how drastically my life had changed in such a short period of time. Eren and I had sex, he promised never to leave me, and now my mom knew I was gay, and better yet she was okay with it. 

She pulled away and looked at me. “I wouldn’t say I’m thrilled. But it’s better than being a drug addict or a thief or something.”

I swallowed. I didn’t think I could speak.

She nudged me. “I just got to get used to it, okay? Maybe Eren will persuade me.”

At that I whipped my head to look at her. “You want to meet him?”

She smiled. “Of course. Eventually. You love him. I want to meet anyone my son loves.”

“I do love him.” I kind of said this without thinking. I couldn’t help it. Hearing my mom say it made me want to say it too.

And that was basically it. My mom left after that. She must have been able to tell I wanted to be alone. Also, I was so tired. Normally I was waking up at the time we were talking, but I hadn’t slept all night. Because I was fucking Eren more. I mean, it was worth it but like I pretty much passed out on my bed after my mom left. I couldn’t think about life anyway. 

Now I’m back at Eren’s. I just told him we need to talk about something, and he said, “Okay, but first, food.” I guess my tone wasn’t serious enough, but whatever. He’s down in his kitchen making a frozen pizza his parents were going to save for dinner. But they’re not home, and we still have four days of spring break. 

I’ve never been so happy in my life. 

…

I ran back upstairs with the pizza tottering in my arms. Jean got the door for me. As I set the pizza down on the bed, and grabbed my first piece, Jean said, “So?”

“So what?” I asked, before taking an enormous mouthful. 

“I said we need to talk. Before you went and got the pizza.”

I swallowed before I was done chewing, and given that the bite really was enormous it didn’t quite go down right. While sort of gagging, I contemplated if maybe I was better of dying now, by choking on pizza, the most delicious food in the world, than hearing whatever Jean had to say to me. What do you say, God? Quit while I’m ahead? 

Because I figured for most couples “we need to talk” went something like one of these three things (in order from least likely to most likely):

1) I’m pregnant, and it’s yours.

2) I cheated on you.

3) We need to breakup.

Setting my pizza down on the cardboard, I turned to face him. “Uh…Yeah?” My voice squeaked and I cursed my lazy genes for not expediting the puberty process for me. Jean already had chest hair and he was a year younger, what was this. Bullshit, that’s what.

Jean sat down on my windowsill. Not the way he usually did, with one leg out and one leg in, with his back pressed against the paneling. Right now, he faced me, and curled his fingers over the ledge, forcing his shoulders to hunch. He stared at my carpeting.

“Yeah?” I said, this time sounding impatient. Like I had demanded him to have something to say to me to begin with.

“I came out to my mom.”

Whoa, okay, okay, okay. Where – What – When – 

_How_ long was I getting pizza? I shook my head – well, more like whipped it back and forth, so he would know just how shocked I was to hear that. In the moment he had said that we needed to talk, a hundred possibilities besides the three from least-to-most-likely had zipped through my mind. Actually, some of the least likely ones had come to mind before _that_. 

Such as:

1) I’m running away to Iceland.

2) I won the lottery.

3) I’m joining the circus.

4) I’m secretly straight.

5) I’m getting a face tattoo.

6) Etc…Etc…Etc…

So…What gives?

“You _what_?” I asked.

“I came out. To my mom.”

My eyebrows furrowed. “Is that…the burns?” I asked. I only remembered to ask because they were visible right now. He’d been trying to keep them out of sight, but right now his sleeves were rolled up.

“Yeah…I assumed she wouldn’t take it well,” he explained. “And that made me panic. But I talked to her so.”

This made me blink. A lot. “And?”

He smiled now, sheepishly, like he didn’t want to. “She’s okay with it.”

A rush of relief flooded my lungs and I let out a breathy exhale that morphed into a laugh. Then I pulled him off the windowsill by one hand as if we were about to tango, and kissed him. Hard. He fell on the floor, and I dropped to the floor and kissed him more. I’d kiss him into the ground.

But he wormed out of my grasp and shoved his hand in my face. “Alright, alright, get off me. I can’t fucking breath.”

I kissed his hand. French kissed it, to be a dick, and he hissed. Suddenly, the world spun and I was on my back. Him in between my legs. Right where he fucking belonged.

“I planned this,” I said, gesturing to our position. 

He snorted. “Yeah, like you’d have to trick me.”

Of course, we kissed again. And just when I thought we were about to take it further, because he was pulling the zipper of my hoodie down and my fingers were curling in his hair – the bed was jostled and the pizza fell off the bed onto his head.

Ten minutes later, when I was done crying from laughing so hard, I choked on my own breath. “Jean?”

“What?” he said, using my computer screen’s reflection to locate pepperonis in his hair.

“Why?”

“Why’d I come out?” he asked, glancing at me. I nodded. He squinted at the screen, but nothing was left in his hair anymore. “For you. Obviously.”

I stood up off the floor and wrapped my arms around his waist from behind. “You did?”

He nodded. “And I’ll do it again. At school. At a job. Whatever we do. You do, I mean. I’m out, now.”

My fingers curled in his shirt. I pressed my forehead between his shoulder blades. “I didn’t ask you to do that for me, Jean.”

He laughed, humorlessly. “I know. And you never would have. Because that’d be fucked up. But…” He spun around to face me, and placed both hands on either side of my face. “I wanted to.”

Despite myself, I smiled. Then everything he said hit me. “At school? Like, high school?”

Now he grinned, that stupid devilish grin that made me feel like I was falling. “Well, you’re not going to college, are you?”

…

The first thing I had to do was make it Facebook official. I wanted to do this because it was the one thing all my other straight peers had done without even thinking, and I wanted to be able to do that too. Making it Facebook official, according to my generation and my school, made it official in real life. I didn’t know why this mattered to me, because I never used Facebook unless I was messaging Armin or Mikasa, but it did. Before Mikasa moved out, I literally never used it. I joined because Mikasa told me I should get one. She thought I might be able to make some friends that way, and so that she would stop pitying me and leave me alone, I made an account.

I’d posted a couple of statuses including these gems:

1) I guess I’m here.

2) District thirteen is alive and well but I am not. 

3) If I was stuck in a room with my mom, dad and sister and only had two bullets I’d shoot myself twice.

4) What’s brown and bad for you teeth? My fist.

5) Can’t wait to live on my own, so I can fart in peace.

Besides the occasional status, I’d posted three pictures. One, a picture Mikasa took of me the day I decided to get an account. My hood was pulled over my head and I was covering my face. The second was one of me and Mikasa as kids. She had always been taller and stronger. In this picture she lifted me over her shoulder while I flailed and threw a tantrum against her back. She uploaded that without my knowing. Apparently she knew my password. The third, my profile picture, was actually one I posted myself. It was a picture of me in the early morning light out in my meadow. Behind me several deer grazed, but one looked right over my shoulder curiously at my phone. As I took the photo I smiled, and held my breath.

“You look good in that picture,” Jean said, looking over my shoulder and pointing at the screen. I groaned. It was a couple years older. He looked much better in his picture that was a couple years old than I did in mine. 

“I don’t care,” I said. “Just put it up because it was better than nothing. Anyway,” I said. All I had to do to make us Facebook official was type in Jean’s name and press a couple of 2D buttons. Then the notification popped up on my screen and anyone and everyone could see it. Despite not having many real friends, most the students in my school were my Facebook friends. Since I went to such a small school, it wasn’t hard to collect everyone.

I turned around to face Jean. To see if he looked panicked, or angry, or scared. He didn’t. In fact, he looked at me like he was waiting for my reaction. He said, “Well?”

“I thought it would be more dramatic than that,” I said. “Like, music would play and my life would change or something.’

He laughed, before leaning down to kiss me. “Just wait ‘til Monday, then.”

At this, I felt a twinge of fear in my gut. I couldn’t stop people from seeing the relationship status. And now, everyone had four days to see it.

I only had four days left with Jean before all hell broke loose. I wrapped my arms around his neck and he guided me to the bed by my waist. 

Two things made me lose track of time:

1) The first, most obvious one of course, was sleep. 

2) And apparently, the second one I’d never guessed, was sex. 

Lots and lots of sex. 

…

Jean and I spent the rest of our break stealing every bit of alone time we could. Every minute spent in my bedroom or his alone was spent in a sanctuary. Problem was, very little time could be spent alone. My parents checked on me practically every hour, forcing Jean to leap into the closet or under the desk or behind the bed at a moment’s notice. I couldn’t figure out why they were being like that. They kept asking weird questions about how school was going, and if I had a girlfriend, or if I’d started doing drugs. None of that was new, of course, but they were rarely so blunt and they rarely outright asked me anything. They had a cautious way of asking too, as if they didn’t want to know the answer.

Jean’s dad beat him again, this time for forgetting to mow the lawn. The lawn thing wasn’t the real problem. It escalated into a you’re-a-worthless-son-and-I-wanted-to-abort-you problem. 

I was upstairs in his room when it happened. He’d gone downstairs to grab us both pops and suddenly I heard his dad barking at Jean about the grass. Jean, not even knowing what he was talking about since the snow had only just melted a couple of days ago, said “What? What about the fucking grass? The lawn is a fucking mud pit right now.”

For an instant I wanted to scream at him too, for not biting his tongue. For not trying to control his frustration and swearing a bit. But the moment I heard the loud _thwack_ of a belt hitting Jean and the yelp he let out, I wanted to scream at myself for me. Like, what the fuck, Eren? You can’t control your temper either! And what are you saying anyway, huh? That Jean deserved to get hit because he said the Fuck Word? Or because he didn’t mow the lawn?

I felt so guilty for thinking like that even an instant that I thought I’d throw up. 

Either that, or I was nauseated because the fight kept escalating. It was all _Well fuck you, the only God damn thing you’re worth for is cleaning and you can’t even do that!_ and all _better than being a good-for-nothing dad!_ and all _What the fuck did you just say?! You’re_ alive _because of me! If not for me you wouldn’t exist! Don’t fucking talk to me like that, you little shit!_ And then more _thwacks_ before Jean sprinted up the stairs his drunken dad fell face first on. 

He’d slammed the door behind him, breathing heavy and holding his hand to his head. He wasn’t bleeding but I could tell it had swollen. “Your place,” was all he said.

We’d leapt over to my room while his dad was still screaming about the crooked stairs. 

Now, it was almost a relief to be on our way to school. My parents didn’t want me driving my new car yet, so they let me drive Mom’s. Dad drove her to work so that it was available to me. They wanted me to have more experience driving before I risked crashing my new car. I wouldn’t ever crash though. I knew how to drive. Even if I got road rage once in a while, I wasn’t going to crash.

Jean didn’t really believe me, but I believed me.

We sped into the nearest parking space, and as I swung the car around to back into the parking space Jean winced and clung onto the door in case he was flung forward. Once I was parked, I glared at him for having so little faith in me.

“Did you die or what?” I asked him.

“No,” he said, “But I almost did. Several times.”

“Yeah I kept missing the cars I was aiming for,” I said through my teeth. “Consider yourself lucky.”

Despite my threat, he laughed. Then he said, “No more driving directly after speaking to your parents. You channel your anger too much.”

“Fuck you,” I spit. I was still bitter. My dad was unusually curt with me this morning. He got angry with me because I was out the door by seven, and angry with me because I didn’t wash off the knife I used to spread jelly on my toast and got mad at me because I left the hallway closet door open before I left. I had no idea what I’d done to piss him off before I even woke up, but I did and he threatened that if I wasn’t home by four today he’d take away my phone. 

Jean leaned over to kiss me. In an instant, our touches were gentle and everything said prior felt endearing. I clung to his clothes. We’d already fucked in public once. I could do it again. I would do it again if he didn’t pull away soon.

But he did and I sighed. 

“Let’s skip school,” I said. “We still have two condoms left.”

He grinned at me and leaned in to kiss me again. It was like he couldn’t kiss me enough since he came out to his mom. I wondered if subconsciously he’d always held back a little, trying to prevent himself from sharing too many happy moments with me. Always preparing for the worst, always preparing for when he would no longer be able to kiss me. 

But now he didn’t have to.

“Nope. Too fucking bad,” he said. “If we don’t do it right now, we’ll never get the nerve to do it again.”

“I don’t care about our nerve,” I said.

“That’s because you’re hard,” he said. “Give it a minute.”

I glanced down at myself and blushed. Well, he wasn’t wrong. I swatted at him before pulling my car key out of ignition and stepping out of the car. By the time I swung my backpack over my shoulder and stared up at our school – which seemed infinitely taller today, clearly capable of being set on fire by the sun or crashed into by asteroids – my boner was thoroughly gone. My dick was inverted. I had a vagina.

“Christ,” I breathed. “Are we really doing this?” 

He glanced over at me and shrugged. “Eh, can’t be worse than my dad’s reaction would be, right?”

Well, he got me there. “Guess so. Your dad’s like…the final boss.”

He smiled. “Then this ain’t shit. It’ll all be over with in a minute.”

I smiled at that. He was probably right. It was stupid of me to assume people would give a shit about us that much to preoccupy their minds with our gayness. They’d stare, and then they’d turn their heads, and then they’d get over it. 

Together we stepped out of the car, walked in front of the hood, and held hands. He reached for mine first, and my heart fluttered in my chest. He was dead fucking serious about this. He meant for the whole school to know. 

“Jean,” I said.

“Hmmm,” he hummed as we headed toward the front entrance of our school.

“I couldn’t do this without you.”

He glanced over at me, wearing an arrogant smirk. “Don’t get all sappy on me, Jaeger.” I blushed, but barely five seconds passed before he sheepishly glanced at me and added, “Me too.”

 

Seconds 60-50: 

 

We reached the entrance of our school, which was crowded with masses of students. Plenty of them didn’t notice. Probably because they were on either side of us, and couldn’t get a good view of our hands. To them, we just looked like two guys heading to class. But anyone standing in front of the doors or just inside stared. And they didn’t just stare like they would at a new student or a student getting scolded by a teacher. They stared at us like we both had blue skin. Like we were aliens. Like they couldn’t even grasp that we existed.

I let out a sigh and Jean looked unamused. I wondered what he was thinking as we made our way through the doors and down the hall past glaring eyes. 

 

Seconds 49-40:

 

We reached Jean’s locker, which was closer to the front door and both our classes. In both our heads, apparently, that made it safer than mine, because neither of us questioned whose locker to go to. 

But Jean barely dropped his backpack to the floor before I realized why his locker _wasn’t_ safer. 

All those popular kids he pretended to be friends with? Yeah, they were waiting at his locker for him. 

And it was like they were looking through a telescope, because they weren’t just looking in our general direction. Through all the chattering and locker-slamming and textbook-clapping and backpack-dropping and footstep-thudding clamor in the school, their heads were tuned out of everything but us. They were scoping us out. They had never seen him with a sophomore before. They had never seen him with an outcast before. They had never seen him with me before. 

Then, their eyes narrowed in on our hands, spotting the meteor they had hoped to find through their lens. Their minds were taking notes, trying to think of every possible reason why we might be holding hands besides the obvious reason. 

They looked at us, and I looked at Jean, and he looked like he was seeing everything in the world at once. 

 

Seconds 39-30:

 

Popular Freshmen Leader Wearing a Snapback: “What the fuck is this, Jean?”

Jean: “His name is Eren."

Popular Freshmen Leader Wearing a Snapback: “ _No_ , what the fuck is _this_?” he gestured to our clasped hands. “Don’t tell me you’re a faggot.”

Popular Freshmen Follower with Braces: “Told you he was taking it up the butt.” He elbowed Popular Freshmen Leader Wearing a Snapback and in response got shoved backward by another guy. 

Popular Freshmen Follower with Neon Orange Backpack: “Shut up, Tate. He’s not a fucking faggot. Right, Jean?”

Jean: Shrugged. “Yeah. That’s me. The faggot.”

 

Seconds 29-20: 

 

They gawked at us. I didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t just them who had noticed us now. I felt like telling Jean to run. To get out of here with me. But at the same time, I couldn’t live that down and neither could he. It was one thing to be gay and okay with it and a whole other thing to be gay and ashamed of it. Neither of us wanted to look ashamed. It would only encourage people to believe they had the right to look down on us.

For the smallest instant of time, the whole school sat still. Not a paper slipped, not a can cracked, not a foot stepped, not a pen clicked or an eye blinked. They stared at us. We stared at each other. 

Jean squeezed my hand. I squeezed it back. It was like we knew.

Someone, somewhere in the crowd, threw a full bottle of Mountain Dew at us. It smacked right against my ear. I yelped, unable to help myself from the pain throbbing in my ear, but quickly recovered. Jean was already spinning around, ready to face our attacker, when we saw it all rise up from the ground. 

Erasers, pencils, pencil sharpeners, mini staples, shoes, lunch bags, the products with in lunch bags, paperbacks, and trash from within the trashcans flew up into the air above us all, and dived toward us once gravity lured them in. Jean and I leaned into each other, covering both of our heads with each other’s hands, like our first kiss. 

People were screaming and laughing and reaching for more to throw.

The first punch landed square in the center of Jean’s face.

 

Seconds 19 -10: 

 

I reacted to the sight of Jean getting hit like placing my hand on a hot stove. I didn’t think, I just did. I jumped in between them. Wrapped my hand around the nape of his attacker’s neck. Shoved his head down. Kicked my knee up. My thigh and knee made contact with his face and he cried out, flailing his arms upward and clawing at my hoodie, trying to find some leverage. Any way he could to fight back. So I kicked him backward into the nearest locker. It slammed so loud it rang in my ears and drowned out the chants of “Fight! Fight! Fight!” roaring behind me.

Only then did I realized that while I was dealing with their leader, Jean had moved on to the next guy. He had the kid pinned against his locker, the kid’s glasses flung on the ground, stepped on, and now Jean swung his fist backward. 

As if it were a picture and not real life, I saw in perfect clarity the third guy step behind Jean, and lift his arms to put Jean in a headlock. 

“Don’t fucking touch him!” I screamed, before lunging. My legs wrapped around his ribs and my arms around his throat, constricting him like a snake as he scrambled as much as he could between the two rows of lockers. He kept crashing into them, banging his head against the metal, trying to escape my clutch. I knew he would do it again, and waited. When he lost his balance again, and fell forward, I kicked off and smacked his head against the metal handle. He screamed and blood spurted from his forehead.

I swung myself around to find that Jean stood on top of the second guys back with his arms in his pockets, staring down at the boy. He breathed heavily under Jean’s weight. Already his eye had swollen. 

We stared at each other. The voices of our peers surrounding us had gotten caught in their throats. No one dared throw anything at us again, or even say anything. Distantly, the clacking of heels against tiles rose louder and louder like a crescendo of our impending doom. The principle.

 

Seconds 9-0:

 

We kissed. I kissed Jean with the taste of someone else’s blood on his skin and scratches on my knuckles from someone else’s nails. I kissed him with every joint in my body aching, and my heartbeat accelerating dangerously high and adrenaline gushing through my veins. I could take on an army. I could take on the universe. And you, God, in that moment, I could even take on you.

As long as I had Jean. 

People stared, and the principles manicured nails clutched onto our shirts.

It was all over with in one minute. 

… 

We were suspended. Each of us an entire week including the three guys we fought. The teachers found out that those guys had started the fight. And, I figured, they had discovered why those guys had started the fight. Three bad bullies picked on two defenseless queers. If word got out that we were the only ones being punished, especially if we were being expelled, the local news would hear about it, and then our school would be facing some deep shit. 

But we weren’t defenseless and the other three were in the hospital. Nothing serious, of course. A couple stiches. Some band aids. Lots of bruising. Nothing worse than what Jean put up with at home regularly. But, still. In any other situation we would have been expelled. Gay privilege, _am I right_? Ba-dump- _dump!_

So we got lucky. One week for us, one week for them. 

She called both of our parents. For the first time today, Jean looked scared. But no one answered and he exhaled. Neither of his parents were home, and the school didn’t have his parents’ work phones.

“Call them on your cellphone,” the principle said, glaring at Jean over the brim of her reading glasses.

“Don’t have one,” he said.

She looked at him like yeah-right. “You’re not going to get in trouble. More trouble, I mean. I just need you to call them.”

“Look, lady,” Jean hissed, “I don’t fucking have a fucking phone.”

“He doesn’t,” I said, hoping to settle Jean down. Not because I cared if he yelled at this woman. I cared whether or not his parents found out that on top of getting expelled, he got in a fight with the principle. 

“Do you have a ride home?” she asked him. Jean nodded at me. She looked at me. “You can drive him?”

“He rode here with me.”

She pursed her lips and nodded. “Well, I couldn’t get ahold of your parents either.”

“Yeah, that’s probably because they don’t give a shit about me,” I said, shrugging. 

The principle stared wide-eyed at me and her jaw dropped. Jean laughed.

She swallowed, not sure how to respond. Our school probably had a counselor or something she was supposed to refer neglected students to. Maybe it was my shitty face or her shitty job or this shitty day, but she didn’t bring it up. Well done, Lady. 

“Well,” she said, “Do you have a phone?”

I pulled it out of my pocket. “Yeah, but they’d sooner answer a phone call from the school than a phone call from me.”

She let out a heavy sigh. “Okay,” she said, laying her hands out flat on the table. “Both of you are going to go home. To your own separate homes.” She looked at us like humor-me-for-God’s-sake. “And both of you, are going to give your parents the notice that you’ve been suspended. And then both of your parents are going to give my office a call. Okay? Okay.”

After that, we left and drove to my place. 

…

Once we were at my place, I debated whether or not to call my parents right away. On the one hand, if I called them right away I could get it over with quickly. Both my parents were at work, and if they answered, they’d want to get the hell off their phone. But also, they wouldn’t want to make a scene at work, screaming or anything, and that was another plus for me. 

On the other hand, I didn’t want to talk to them. I wanted to make out with Jean and watch him draw or watch a movie or watch him undress or something infinitely better than talk to my parents.

Yeah, I wasn’t going to call them. Couldn’t believe I pretended to consider it.

Jean and I didn’t do anything fun, though. We laid in my bed, holding onto each other and talked. For me, telling my parents about the suspension would be a pain in the ass. For him, it was a serious risk. His mom would be disappointed. She’d be angry. She might even ground him. But if his dad found out, which seemed, you know, possible…I couldn’t even think about it.

“I’m not going to tell my mom anything about us kissing at school,” he said. His fingers threaded through my hair, absently. In the other hand he held a cigarette. Normally I wouldn’t let him smoke in here, but he was so stressed and his hands were trembling and I wasn’t going to make him sit in the windowsill away from me just to get his fix. “Just the fight. My dad won’t care about a fight. Bastard will probably be proud.”

“He’s not going to find out,” I said.

“Sure, he’s not,” he said, “Like that time he didn’t find out I was sneaking into your room. Or stealing his cigarettes. Or find drawings of shirtless guys under my bed. Or that time he –”

“I get it,” I hissed, not wanting to be reminded. “Stay here tonight.”

“I’ll try.” 

“Stay. Here. Tonight.”

He sighed, and pulled on his cigarette until he held nothing but the filter. He threw it in a water cup he left there the other night.

He rolled over to kiss me. He tasted like smoke and smelled like mint shampoo and cheap cologne. I couldn’t stand the idea of him leaving. I couldn’t stand the idea of rolling over in the middle of my sleep to smell him on my sheets, knowing that if he wasn’t here he was at home and who knew what would happen to him there. 

His dad could kill him. He almost killed his mom once. What would stop him from killing Jean? Even if it wasn’t on purpose, it wouldn’t matter. He’d be gone.

“I’ll stay, okay?” he said. “I might have to sneak back here later, but I’ll stay.”

I let out a relieved sigh and kissed him again. “Okay.”

Downstairs, my front door slammed and I shuddered.

“Eren!” My dad yelled, “Get down here right now!”

Apparently the principle had gotten a hold of him, or he had memorized her office phone number. 

“Go,” Jean said.

“I could fake my death,” I said.

“ _Go_ , Eren.” Jean fought a smile as he tried to be stern with me. 

I kissed the tip of his nose before running downstairs. 

My dad sat at the kitchen table waiting for me. I leaned against the countertop ready for what came my way. Earlier I’d tucked the notice into my pocket. Pulling it out of my pocket now, I tossed the crumpled slip at him.

“I need you to sign it,” I said.

My dad looked confused. “Later, Eren.” He set it aside without even looking at it. “We need to talk about your car.”

I stared at him, waiting for an explanation. He didn’t know about the fight at school. He had no clue. Whatever he was mad about, it wasn’t that.

“What?” I asked. “What about it?’

My dad straightened his tie and adjusted his glasses. His jaw clenched, as if he was caging in his own yelling. “Your car,” he said, through his teeth, “had thirty three more miles on it than when we drove it home from the dealer.”

My eyebrows furrowed, not sure what he meant. My dad laced his hands in his lap, waiting for an excuse I couldn’t give because I didn’t know what it was for.

“What?” I asked.

“When we drove the car home from the dealer it had seventeen miles on it,” he said. “This morning, I thought to check to see if it had remained the same. I almost didn’t, because I thought I could trust you not to go behind my back. I was wrong. Thirty three more miles. To where? And when?”

The Point, where I lost my virginity on my birthday, that was where and when. I swallowed. 

“I just took it for a drive,” I said. “To see what it was like.”

“Without our permission. Did you even have your license yet?” Though my dad wasn’t yelling, his voice was a damn-near growl.

“Uh, yeah. What, do you think I’m stupid or something? It was right after I got my license.” The day I got my license, but who was keeping track anyway. Not me.

“I’m not sure, son. You took it out without our permission. I wouldn’t say that was _smart_ of you.”

“Well, whatever. So what? I took it for a fucking test-drive.”

He shook his head. “If you had asked, I would have said yes. But you didn’t, and I don’t believe you. Thirty three miles is quite a ways for a ‘test-drive’.”

“Yeah, well, I went quite a ways.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he spit. “If you’re not going to tell me where you went – and with who, at least don’t lie.”

I cleared my throat, and tried to keep my composure. “Come on, Dad. Who would I even go with? All my cool friends who wanted to take a drive in my super cool new Honda and go buy drugs? Come on, really?”

My dad didn’t look amused. I knew he wouldn’t budge on this, no matter how convincing I tried to be.

“I think you went to see your sister. And that friend of hers.”

“Armin?”

My dad’s eyes widened at the use of his real name.

“Arianne,” he said. “I think you went to see them. You thought we wouldn’t catch you.”

I huffed out a laugh, and it was at least half genuine, because I could honestly say, “I didn’t go see Mikasa. If I really wanted to talk to her I could talk to her at school. You know, the place we go every day for several hours on end away from parents?”

“But this was over spring break,” he said. “And don’t you dare take that tone with me.”

“Okay, whatever. I won’t do it again. Punish me, or whatever, already.”

My dad nodded, as if he was listening, but his eyes had wandered back toward the notice I would have to give to my principal when I went back to school. As if he had to insert it into a vending machine, my dad flattened it out with his hands and pressed it flat against the tabletop. He read for much longer than he needed to. Then he adjusted his glasses. His eyes met mine. “You’re being suspended?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Yeah. For –”

“For fighting,” he said. “You got in a fight.”

“Yeah.”

My dad’s hands trembled. Once again, he adjusted his tie. His pony-tail. His glasses. Everything all at once while his brain attempted to download this new information. 

“What,” he said, “decent reason on earth…could you possibly have…for fighting?”

I held my breath, and gritted my teeth together until my jaw hurt. The only sound in the room was my nails clacking on the countertop. I only answered when I knew I wouldn’t scream at him. “Does it really matter, Dad? I got in a fight, and I’m suspended. Nothing’s gonna change that.”

My dad slammed his fist against the table. “How can you possibly think like that? Who the hell taught you to think like that! It sure as hell wasn’t me! Tell me Eren, because I need to understand. What was worth sacrificing your education for?”

“God, dad I didn’t fucking sacrifice my –”

My dad slammed his fist again, this time to shut me up. “Yes! You did! You could have been expelled! And then where would you have gone to school? There’s not another high school anywhere near here! Your mother would have had to quit her job to homeschool you for God’s sake!”

I was so angry my teeth were chattering. Have you ever been so angry your teeth fucking chattered? Mine were, and I couldn’t control my jaw for the life of me. My teeth would have flat edges by the time this argument finished.

“Just, trust me, Dad! I didn’t even start the fight!” 

“Oh, _really_?” my dad said. “Then what did you do, son? Who’d you piss –”

“Dad!” I screamed now, lurching forward. “Hasn’t it even occurred to you,” I kept going, kept stepping forward, curling my fists in the air out of fury, “haven’t you even thought, like, at _all_ that maybe, just _maybe_ , I didn’t fucking deserve to get punched in the face?!”

Our faces were a foot apart now, and I tried not to bare my teeth. I tried not to flip the table in my anger.

“Son,” my dad said, so calmly I shivered. “Your face is fine.”

“What?” I asked.

“Your face. If he had punched you in the face, hard enough that you had to hit back, wouldn’t your face have a mark?”

I exhaled until my lungs hurt, like I had been popped and would deflate. I swallowed. “It wasn’t me. I – I was defending a friend.”

“A friend?” My dad laughed. “You did all this for a friend? What friend?”

Now, that felt like a punch. I looked away from him. 

“No,” my dad said, “No more lies or excuses. You’re grounded. No phone. No car, especially. TV, computer, any of that. Nothing. Enjoy your week off on behalf of your _friend_.”

My back stiffened at his words. My fists were so tight my nails cut into my palms. I turned around to look at him. “When someone punches my boyfriend in the face I’m not going to just sit there and watch him –”

“Your _what_?” My dad said, staring at me with a bewildered expression, as if he had no idea where he was. He didn’t even sound mad anymore. “Your what, son?”

“Uh…” I started. I hadn’t meant to say boyfriend. It had just slipped. It felt so natural to say it and when I was angry I could never hold my tongue the way I needed to.

The front door swung open. My mom walked in carrying two bags of groceries. “There’s more in the – What’s going on?” 

“Ask your son,” my dad said, breathless. “Ask your son what he just said.”

“I was defending a friend, Dad,” I said, but even I couldn’t sound convincing.

“No, you were defending a _boyfriend_ ,” he repeated, slowly standing from his chair. 

“Excuse me?” my mom said, setting the bags on the counter next to me. “Sorry, dear, what’s going on? What friend? Who’s boyfriend?”

“Eren’s boyfriend,” my dad said.

My mom shifted her gaze toward me. She looked horrified, heartbroken, and her mouth hung open in shock. She placed her hand against her chest as if she couldn’t breathe.

“Isn’t that right, Eren?” my dad said, “You got in a fight today because of your boyfriend.”

I huffed out a groan through my chattering teeth, trying not to scream or throw anything. “It wasn’t because of him!”

“So you admit it!” he screamed, “You admit you have a boyfriend!”

“Yeah, I have a fucking boyfriend!” I screamed back, slamming my hand against my chest and leaning forward, trying to stand my ground. If I was going to come out, I wasn’t going to do it scared, cowering underneath my parents’ faces. My mom started wailing but I screamed over her. “And somebody fucking punched him today for holding my hand!” A sob seeped into my throat as tears began draining from my eyes. I couldn’t bother to push them away. “Can you fucking believe that?! He held my hand! Because he fucking loves me and – and – and somebody saw, somebody who used to be his friend! His fucking friend, Dad! Who hates him now all because he loves me! And his friend wanted to hurt him! People were throwing trash at us and screaming at us for this! Don’t you see?” I sobbed, “Don’t you see how fucking fucked up that is? All because he loves me!”

My mom had officially checked out, covering her ears and closing her eyes as she cried. She kept wailing, over and over, “Not you too, Eren! Not you too!” 

My dad ignored her. “Get out! Get out of my house! You’re not my son anymore! I don’t know this person! Don’t come back until you –”

“Until I what?!” I flung my arms in the air and let out a lunatic chuckle. “Until I find the faggot cure? I’m gay! I like dick! I’ve always liked dick! My boyfriend has fucked me from behind before! More than once! In _your_ house! And guess what, _Grisha_. I like it more every time! I fucking _beg_ him for it!”

My mom screamed so loud I thought glass would break. My dad lunged for me. I backed up in time just to miss his smack. He was going to hit me. 

Jean was right. His words played in my head: _I know that voice, baby. He’d hurt you._

I ran. I took the stairs three at a time. Three times faster than my dad could handle. I was up the stairs and slamming my bedroom door shut before my dad even processed I was heading up the stairs. I locked my door and swung around.

Jean pulled me into his arms. “Did he hurt you?”

“He tried to,” I breathed.

Jean shook his head. “What’re you going to do?”

“He kicked me out,” I said. “Can I stay at your place?”

Jean backed away from me. “What? Eren – I mean, a night is okay but you can’t _live_ with me. I couldn’t hide you from my dad.”

My dad’s fists started slamming on my bedroom door. He yelled at me from the other side about packing my bags.

“God,” Jean breathed. “Just, God. What the hell are you going to do?” 

“Is that him?” my dad screamed. “Is that the boy who screwed you up?!”

“Fuck off!” I yelled.

My dad kicked the door.

“Shit!” I hissed. “He’s going to break it!”

As quickly as we could, Jean and I started gathering everything we’d need while my dad tried to break down the door. Clothes, shoes, homework, drawings, ash tray, books, comics, the picture he gave me, everything in sight, everything until both our bags and a gym bag were stuffed so full we could barely lift them.

“Now what?” I yelled.

My dad cracked the center of the door. “Eren! You can’t hide in there forever! Open this damn door, now!”

“Throw it, throw it all,” Jean said gesturing to the window. I didn’t have time to tell him what a bad idea that was or consider how likely it was to not work. We flung my bedroom window open and tossed the bags onto Jean's roof. I laughed when they all landed on the roof and Jean shook his head in disbelief. Oh God, you _are_ real, aren’t you? Thank you so much for helping me out in these trying times, by letting the bags _land_! Clearly, there’s _nothing_ else you could have done to help!

The door broke into pieces and my dad shoved his head, shoulder and arm through the door. He spotted Jean and recognized him. His jaw dropped. “I knew you were trouble!” He pointed at Jean. “Get away from my boy!”

“Go, go, go,” I said. 

Jean jumped and landed on the other side. His window was always cracked and he had no screen, so he could swing it open and jump right in.

“Eren! Eren! Stay right there! Stay, boy, or I’ll –”

I jumped. Jean pulled me into his arms on the other side. We yanked the bags into his room.

“My dad’s going to come over here,” I said. “I have to get away from you or –”

“Eren, Eren, baby,” Jean said, placing his hands on my face. “Let him. My mom’s the only one home right now, okay? Don’t worry about him.”

I nodded, forcing myself to breathe deeply. We had a little time. Jean’s dad wouldn’t be home for another hour. 

“Now,” he said, pulling me in by my waist. “Think. Where can you go?” 

My eyes widened as I looked at him. Then I leapt for my backpack, praying I hadn’t left the Post-it note behind. I hadn’t. After Mikasa left I’d shoved her note in my backpack. We’d spoken on Facebook and at school about her time at Armin’s grandpa’s place. She told me Armin’s grandpa would let me stay.

“Here,” I said.

“What’s that?” Jean asked.

“I’m going to stay with my sister.”

Jean let out a sigh of relief and kissed me. 

I wasn’t relieved. Staying with Mikasa meant leaving him behind. Leaving him to live between the people that despised him the most, without me there to protect him. I’d only be able to see him at school, since I couldn’t possibly take my car with me. And it hurt. It hurt so fucking bad to be away from him and he wasn’t even gone yet. 

I cried. I cried so fucking hard in his arms. He held me close, curling his fingers in my shirt and kissing my neck. 

“We only have a few minutes,” he said. “Before one of our dads shows up. We have to get ready.”

I nodded.

“But first,” Jean breathed. “Come here.”

He guided me to his bed, shoving everything off of it so that there was room for the two of us. And we started to pretend we had all the time in the world. 

…

I stood outside the same gas station I bought condoms at. When I called Armin, he agreed he’d pick me up. Since I couldn’t be picked up at Jean’s place or my own, this was the only place I could go to. 

His grandpa pulled into the parking lot and found a spot. I only knew it was him because Armin sat in the passenger seat and waved at me. When I walked up, Mikasa slid the door open for me. She pulled me into her arms before I could say anything. None of us talked on the way home. Armin’s grandpa understood what was going on, and I’d fill Mikasa in later.

At Armin’s, he let me have the guest room that Mikasa had been using. She’d sleep with him in his room for as long as I had to stay here. 

Mikasa sat down on the guest bed while I unpacked.

“He tried to hit you?” she asked.

I told her yes.

She shook her head, staring off into the distance as if she wasn’t in the bedroom anymore. “I can’t believe he’d –”

“I can,” I spit. “Jean knew it when he kicked you out.”

Her eyebrows rose, not in surprise but in weariness. She scrubbed her hands over her face. “Well, you’re safe here. How ‘bout Jean? Is he…?”

I stared at her. My face hurt from crying. It felt tight with salt. Last I checked, my eyes were bloodshot and my brown skin was three shades lighter than normal. I looked like complete shit. The last thing I wanted to do in the world was sit down and talk about Jean with Mikasa. I wasn’t mad at her, or anything. I just didn’t want to think about him, alone in his bedroom, just waiting for hell to blow over.

“I don’t know,” I said. 

She heard the hint in my tone. She nodded and left the room. As soon as she was gone and the door was shut behind her, I pulled out the loose-leaf lined paper he’d written his house phone number on. I’d given him the post-it note with Armin’s number. He didn’t have a computer or a cell, but we could call the landlines. Only at certain times, but it was something. I pressed the paper to my chest.

I’d have to spend a week at Armin’s place. Alone. Without Jean. 

…

April 11, 2016

Eren’s parents kicked him out after he came out to them. They know I’m his boyfriend, and they know I live next door. 

Dad just got home. Right now, he’s screaming about my suspension to my mom. She was on the phone with the principle when he walked in. She tried to get the phone call over with before he got home, but figures, right? 

Why not find every way possible to make this the worst Goddamn day of my life?

I know it’s only a matter of time before Eren’s dad or mom walks over here to tell my parents what’s happening. Eren’s parents have no idea what they’re in for. 

But I have an idea what I’M in for.

I’ve never been so scared in my life. I’m scared to walk out into the hallway to go to the bathroom. I’m thinking about jumping out the window. I might break an ankle, or something, but I could get somewhere at least. Eren might have left his car unlocked. If his parents don’t move it or anything, I could sleep in there for a night or two

I’m not going to see Eren for a week. A WEEK.

I’m so scared. I miss him so much already.

I have to stop writing or I’m going to get the page all wet.


	11. Pamphlet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know I said AGAIN that my entire focus would be on ODS after the LAST time I updated this...but, the last time I updated this it kind of just stuck with me? And I couldn't get it out of my head, so I knew I had to update it again. Especially because...this update is the last chapter! And that's why it took forever, and that's why this chapter is so long...so, PREPARE yourselves!
> 
> (Ps. It's NOT as thoroughly edited as it is normally... I will edit in the future, but as of right now, I wanted to post it as soon as possible!)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and I hope it was worth the wait!

April 12, 2016 

It’s four or five AM. I can tell because gray light is coming in through my blinds. Not like, sunny light. But it’s not night anymore. I’m afraid to stand up and check my clock. I doubt it would make enough noise to wake my dad, because he’s wasted. But I can’t make myself do it.

I can’t see through my left eye, it’s so swollen. It’s never been that bad. My ear has a huge slit in it now, right where all the girls at school get that weird cartilage piercing on only one ear. It needs stitches, but it’s not going to get stitches, so I assume it’s just always going to have a slit in it now. I broke two of my fingers punching him back. And honestly I’m just… Only twice have I ever believed in God. The first time was when Eren and I had sex for the first time. And the second time was today, when I punched my dad square in the jaw and only my fingers broke. I could tape my fingers. I couldn’t tape hand bones or wrist bones. And my dad passed out after that. Not because I’d honestly hit him hard enough to pass out, but because hitting him made him lose his balance and he fell back onto the couch. Apparently he didn’t have enough energy to get up. He left me alone after that. 

When Eren’s parents came over, it was so fucking surreal. 

My dad answered, of course. My mom stood behind him, trying to mediate the discussion, but my dad kept screaming at her to shut up. My dad let Eren’s parents step in.

I was sitting on the recliner. Eren’s dad wouldn’t look at me, but Eren’s mom did. She looked me right in the eyes. I smiled like “Hi, fuck my life,” and she looked away right away and got all red. She looked around my house. I saw everything she saw in comparison to her own. I saw her realize what I lived with. 

The floor was so covered in trash, beer cans, broken beer bottles and the smashed TV we had before my dad bought a new one. Boxes filled with cassettes and spare car parts and golf clubs and balls, tools and painting equipment my dad always claimed he needed for the magic day he’d get around to fixing up cars again and making renovations on the house. 

I saw her eyes follow the dirt trail on our beige carpeting to the bathroom and up the stairs with screws popping out of them and the broken banister. She looked up at the chandelier, which used to be a nice chandelier, but now one of the chains had been yanked out of the ceiling and it hung crooked with all the glass crystals dangling close enough to cut your damn head if you didn’t duck. She saw my mom’s bras and shirts and my dad’s belt and my dad’s work pants and his briefs and socks hanging on the curtain rod because we didn’t have a dryer and we lived in Superior, which meant nine months out of the year it was too damn cold to put clothes on a clothesline outside without them freezing into a solid chunk of ice. 

Eren’s mom saw the scratches on the wall and the broken plaster where my dad had thrown things. She saw the metal chair which was actually lodged inside the wall. My dad never took it out. She looked at the ceilings and saw all the water stains from the tub we had upstairs that flowed over whenever my dad took a bath drunk and he passed out before turning the water off. The buckets on the floor that held the drops that plummeted. And when she covered her nose I knew she could smell everything my nose had gotten used to. Cigarettes and fast food wrappers with molding mayonnaise or cheese stuck to them. Vomit in various places my dad had thrown up before getting to the bathroom. Probably B.O. I didn’t have air-conditioning. All we could do was open windows. 

This was everything I never let Eren see. My room looked like an ordinary room because I kept it that way. And the bathroom upstairs, though dirty, was just that. A dirty bathroom. It didn’t look like a meth-head lived in it like the rest of my house did. 

I knew what Eren’s mom was thinking now that she had seen it. This family has lived here less than a year. When they moved here, the house must have been in pristine condition. It had open houses and guest-showings after all. I’m sure she knew who the neighbors were before us too. I’m sure they were nice people who owned a vacuum. 

I felt guilty thinking all of this though. Because my mom actually did her best. She was bedbound a lot of the time she wasn’t at work because she was depressed and wouldn’t admit it. And she hated being anywhere but her bedroom when dad was home. She never knew what would provoke him. He would just mess it up again anyway.

Eren’s dad didn’t look at the house just like he didn’t look at me. I could tell he was trying not to look at the house. He didn’t want to see what I lived in. He didn’t want to feel sorry for me like Eren’s mom did. He didn’t want to regret what he was about to do, like Eren’s mom definitely would.

“What do you want?” my dad said as he slumped down on the couch. “Jean, what’d you do?”

I didn’t say anything. 

“JEAN! They the parents of the boy you fought with?!” 

I ignored him some more. My dad threw a coaster at me and it hit me in the neck. Eren’s parents flinched. I laughed, which obviously scared them. I wanted to look at them and yell, “Yeah! I’m Eren’s evil boyfriend! This is my family! This is my house! That’s how my dad says PSST! Stay for dinner!” 

But I didn’t. “No,” I said. 

My dad looked at Eren’s parents then like, “Okay, so are you guys selling us something or…?”

“We’d like to talk to you about your son,” Eren’s dad said. I stared at him. He avoided looking at me. Eren’s mom stared at me as if she was afraid I’d bite her. My mom stood in the kitchen, cleaning dishes. I ached a little bit then. I knew how embarrassed she was. I knew how scared she was, because she knew exactly what this was and she couldn’t stop it. 

“Yeah? What about him?” My dad glared at me for a second. 

“Your son has been taking advantage of mine,” Grisha said. 

I snorted at that. Grisha finally looked at me.

“He’s older than me,” I explained. “I haven’t done shit to him.”

Grisha gritted his teeth and returned his attention to my confused dad. Grisha’s pretentious scholarly way of speaking was like a whole new language to my dad’s irritated grunts and cursing.

“You been selling that kid somethin’?” My dad looked at me, completely indifferent to the answer. My dad wouldn’t give a shit if he learned I dealt weed or something. Apparently he’d forgotten about the night he was drunk and beat me up for being a faggot. The night I hopped over to Eren’s for the first time all bloody and crying and shit. 

“Do I look like I have money?” I spit at him and he waved me off, returning his attention to Grisha. 

Grisha cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. But I wasn’t going to say it. I was going to look up at him and act like I had no idea what I was talking about, so that he would have to say the fucking words. 

“I’m afraid not,” Grisha said. “Actually, your son has been fornicating with mine. Your son is homosexual. And I won’t have my son negatively influenced by him anymore. I’m here to warn you, so that you can discipline Jean appropriately. And to insist you keep track of your son from now on.”

When Grisha actually used the word “fornicating” I thought I’d lose my shit. I was so exhausted and annoyed and amused by that, like…are you fucking shitting me? Are, you fucking, SHITting me? Fornicating? Christ. 

Everyone in the house looked at my dad. Even my mom, who Eren’s parents probably forgot even existed. Maybe they hadn’t even noticed her. I looked at her and for a moment she looked like she was about to say something to me, or cry, or gesture in some way that I’d understand. But I already did. She was sorry and she was scared for me and that was that. 

My dad didn’t process what Grisha said right away. It had some big words and some bullshit elitist tone and he didn’t mix with that kind of crap.

Then he looked at me and asked, “What the fuck is he talkin’ about?”

I knew that he understood what Grisha had said by then. But HE didn’t know if he understood. He THOUGHT Grisha was accusing me of being gay, but to my surprise, this didn’t make sense to my dad. 

“Dad,” I said. “What do you think? I’m fucking the neighbor boy.”

I pointed my thumb over my shoulder toward Eren’s house. I tried to do this like it was no big deal. Like I didn’t give a shit. Like being gay meant nothing to me and I wasn’t ashamed and I didn’t want to be straight and I never had wanted to be and I sure as hell wasn’t ashamed of Eren and I sure as hell didn’t wish I could be with a girl instead because he was the only damn person I wanted now on the whole godforsaken planet. 

I’m not entirely sure what happened next. I can’t remember if my dad said anything. I know that for one second, we were all quiet as my last statement sunk in. Everyone looked as if they weren’t sure they heard me right. 

But then they did. And it was actually Grisha who jumped forward. He grabbed my shoulders and shook me, and I laughed because I didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. That made him angrier so he swung his arm back to hit me, but I kicked my legs up and sunk both my feet into his stomach. It probably didn’t hurt that bad, but I’d mastered the art of Tip the Bigger Man Over and Run. 

I didn’t get to run though. Because then my dad was on me. Pummeling me into the recliner while Eren’s parents watched. I managed to shield a lot of his blows, but he wasn’t drunk right then. Or…the least amount of drunk my alcoholic dad could function on. He was practically sober. Tipsy. He usually didn’t hit me when he was soberish. He threw stuff and insulted me and might shove me around a bit, but he didn’t go for the hard stuff unless he was drunk-drunk. 

Eren’s mom screamed. My mom waited. Eren’s parents ran out of the house, which caught my dad’s attention. I knew why it had, too. They’d probably call the police. If they called the police, my dad might go to jail again. It distracted him long enough for me to punch him and get out of there. 

My mom had knocked on my room a couple times since I locked myself in here. But I ignored it. I felt bad for ignoring it, but I was just too fucking scared to open my door. I wanted both of my parents to believe I was asleep. I wanted both of them to think I was too asleep to wake up.

My hand’s killing me. I’ve never written this much in one sitting. But like, I had to write it now. I had to get it out now or I’d forget the details. Or I would just plain not write it. And…

I guess it just matters to me now that I keep the journal up. Like, my last-ditch effort to say “Fuck you” to my dad. Because I could say whatever I wanted about him in here, and he had no idea, and he couldn’t do shit. I can tell these pages that I want my dad to die, and soon, and preferably on a highway, and oh, look at that, I’m still alive and not shit happened. 

But seriously my hand is killing me. Broken fingers and everything.

And I need a fucking cigarette. I have six. One a day until I can see Eren. I don’t know how I’ll make it but I have to. 

I have six more days left and I HAVE to make it. 

… 

Jean and I didn’t get a chance to talk until Thursday. I had tried to call him more than once both the days before but he didn’t answer and neither did his mom. I could only assume that was because his dad was home. That was all I would assume, because if I thought about it any further beyond that I started to panic over all the other reasons he might not be answering.

But finally, at about one pm. on Thursday, he answered on the first ring.

“Hello? Eren?” he asked.

I could hear how badly he wanted it to be me on the other end.

“It’s me,” I said, weakly. “Why haven’t you been answering?”

“I haven’t left my room.”

“What?” I gasped. “Jean – _what_?”

“I mean,” he started. “Other than to go to the bathroom. I haven’t left.”

“Have you been eating?” 

“My mom brings me food when she can.”

“When she – Jean what the fuck does that mean?”

“Neither of us can leave our rooms much.”

“ _What_?” I yelled, thankful that the house was empty because both Armin and Mikasa were at school and Armin’s Grandpa was outside gardening. 

“Okay, look. I’m making it sound worse than it is. We’re just being, you know, cautious or whatever around my dad.”

I didn’t believe him for a second. He didn’t lie often and when he did he was bad at it. “Jean, you better tell me right fucking this second what’s going on.”

Jean swallowed on the other end, stalling. “Okay. Your parents came over and my dad knows everything. He knows why I got suspended. He knows I’m gay. He knows you’re my boyfriend. And he knows my mom knew all this before him.”

My body went rigid as I sat up in bed. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just gotta lay low, Eren, relax. I know the drill, okay? Steer clear of my dad, and everything’s fine.”

“I don’t believe you. Jean, why don’t I believe you? Why are you lying to me?”

He hesitated. “I just need a cigarette. I’m out. Can’t stop shaking.”

I raised my eyebrows. Of course. I should have thought of that already. Personally, I wished he didn’t smoke. Not specifically for his health, though that wasn’t something I wanted to jeopardize. But because every single time he stole cigarettes from his dad he was putting himself at risk. And I knew that the only thing that could calm him down when he was stressed was a cigarette. Without them, he was in a constant state of anxiety and tension. 

“I’m sorry,” I told him. “I’ll get you some, okay?”

“How?”

“Mikasa’s eighteen,” I said. “She’ll buy me some.”

He let out a sigh of relief. “Thank God.”

“Just three more days.”

“Three and a half,” he corrected, and it only scared me more that he felt the need to get that precise. On my end, this was long and annoying and I missed him and worried about him. But on his end it was so much worse and I couldn’t imagine how slow time was moving for him. 

“I love you. Don’t forget that.”

He huffed out a laugh on the other end. “It’s all that keeps me going, baby.”

…

Monday finally came. I’d never before in my life been thankful for a Monday but when my alarm went off this morning I damn near jumped high enough to touch heaven’s ass. Finally, Monday. Mikasa couldn’t drive fast enough on the way to school. I kept urging her to go faster, and she reminded me that I was no good to Jean dead. I held his cigarettes in my lap, so tightly I thought I might crush them.

Mikasa said, “What if his parents took him out of school?”

“Don’t say that,” I said.

“It could happen,” Mikasa said. “They sound like the type.”

“Shut up,” I spit.

“If his dad took him out of school his dad would have to put up with him,” Armin said, which filled me with relief. Of course. His dad wouldn’t take him out of school because his dad wouldn’t want to be around him. “Also…I’m pretty sure they’d have a hard time keeping him from going if he really wanted to go.”

“Which he does,” I said, holding up the cigarettes as if that was the only reason he wanted to come to school. “There’s no way he doesn’t want to.”

“The bigger worry I think is that he won’t be able to,” Armin said.

“You think he’s…?” Mikasa started, as she turned onto the off-ramp. 

I whipped my head around to look at Armin over the passenger seat in the back. My look of horror prevented him from speaking for a moment. “That’s just worst case scenario,” Armin said, patting my seat as if it was my back. Somehow, it helped. “Knowing Jean…even the little that I know him, it doesn’t sound like much could hold him back.”

“Damn right,” I said.

Mikasa nodded as if she too knew enough about him to know that. “Plus, he’s already pretty used to his household situation.”

I didn’t want to think about that. And thankfully, I didn’t have to right then because the school crept into view. As soon as the car parked, I leapt out of the car with one backpack strap over my shoulder and sprinted toward the front doors. I shoved my way through the masses of people, attempting to ignore their looks and not quite succeeding. They looked at me differently this time. They looked at me as if they were scared. As if I was wearing a trench coat and holding a rifle. Good. Let them be scared. I made eye contact with some of them, just to reinforce their fear. 

I want every fucking one of you to know what happens when you hurt my boyfriend. I hurt you worse. 

Jean stood at his locker. At first, all I felt was the sheer massive relief that, oh my God, he made it. Thank you so much, God. He’s here, and I know I curse you more than thank you, but thank you, thank you, thank you for getting him here. 

Then everything else processed. The tape on his fingers. The purple baseball that had taken his eye’s place in its socket. His cut lip and the tape on his nose. The freshly buzzed undercut, now much higher on his head because he had stitches along his temple. He wore a sling, and my eyes bulged at the sight. He shook his head, as if to say _oh it’s nothing_ and he waved me off. 

I dropped his cigarettes in order to pull him into my arms. He wrapped one arm around my neck and kissed me for what felt like the whole damn day. When we parted I asked, “Is it broken?” I gestured to his sling.

“He dislocated my shoulder,” Jean explained. “My mom still had the sling laying around from when he fractured her collarbone way back in the day. Here, give me my cigarettes.” He pulled away from me to point at them on the floor. I bent over to pick them up and then I handed them to him. “Open them,” he said. I did. “Thank you so fucking much. I thought I might die from the withdrawals.” He kissed me to show his gratitude, and only then did I see beyond his injuries. The shaking hands, sweaty forehead, shifting from one foot to the other and deep circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. He pulled out a cigarette right there in the hall and placed it between his lips. Since he had a lighter on him, he lit and inhaled a huge puff. He held it in his lungs for a long time before exhaling.

A couple people nearby waved their hand in the air to clear the smoke away. They bitched about it being indoors and during school under their breath, but when Jean glared at them they cleared out of there like they’d catch the plague if they didn’t. I let him get a few more drags in before talking to me. Almost immediately, he seemed more relaxed. 

“I gotta do something, Eren. It’s me or him. You know how people always say that? Like, they know they can kill someone as long as it’s _me or him_?”

I nodded. It wasn’t something I’d ever said, personally, because I believed it wouldn’t take even that much for me to kill somebody. But I knew people said it. 

“I never thought I could,” he said, exhaling and immediately shoving the filter back between his lips. I breathed in the smoke even though I wasn’t a smoker. I missed it. The smell reminded me so much of him, and calmed me too. “Like, I thought about killing my dad before and everything, but like, I didn’t think I could actually kill someone. Now I’m like…I have you. I have too many reasons to stay alive. I’ve got to.”

He put his cigarette out on his locker and dropped the butt to his feet. I considered the fact that people called cigarette butts “fags” and how everybody always drowned the fags in glasses of water or stepped on them or crushed them in ashtrays and how human fags weren’t treated all that differently. Jean stepped away and we fell into the current of students on their way to classes. I was just glad he didn’t put it out on himself this time. 

“You’re really thinking about killing your dad?” I asked. And to my surprise, I was entirely indifferent to the answer. I didn’t have two shits to rub together about whether or not Jean killed his dad. My only concern was him getting caught. Getting caught meant Juvie. I didn’t want him to be away from me that long. 

“Not exactly,” he said. Absentmindedly, Jean reached for my hand. I held it. Squeezed it. Let everyone around us see it. Felt a sick sense of satisfaction that everyone pretended to not see it. “All I mean is, I know I could kill him. So, if I can kill him, that means I should be able to do whatever it takes to get rid of him, you know? And I gotta get rid of him. It’s him or me.”

I nodded, finally getting it. What he really meant was, very soon, only two people would be living in that house. One of them had to go. And Jean didn’t want it to be him. 

We reached the end of the hall where Jean had to go left and I had to go right. I kissed him quick, told him to take a nap if he could get away with it, and then watched him head into his class. The bell rang, making me late, but I didn’t care. 

…

At lunch, I inched through the line like I normally did, pointing at the food I wanted, paying for it, grabbing chocolate milk and all that. But when I reached the end of the line, I stood, staring out at the sea of C Lunch students, as if on a stage. 

My usual table was inhabited by my usual lunch companions. Two guys from my study hall – the three of us rotated homework sometimes, copying this for that class and that for another – one of their girlfriends, one of the girlfriend’s friends, and then a kid we all vaguely knew but probably couldn’t name, who had no one else to sit with. Really, none of us had anyone else to sit with. We didn’t sit with each other because we were _friends_. We sat together so we wouldn’t have to sit alone. And, despite that, we talked to each other and waved in the halls and had each other’s phone numbers, just in case we needed a ride or something. 

I never thought I’d miss it. But now that I couldn’t sit with them, I did. Not enough to see what happened if I sat down though. I knew two of them for sure had openly talked shit about gay people, and one of them still said “That’s _so_ gay” whenever something was really lame. Also most of Superior did that, given that we hadn’t caught up with the rest of the country who had realized that even if you were okay with insulting gay people, you still sounded stupid as shit saying it. 

I couldn’t stand in the same spot forever, so I walked toward the outskirts of all the lunch tables. The ones closest to the actual kitchen were the least occupied because they were most visible to all the teachers lurking along the cement walls of the cafeteria. I chose one that was long, and occupied by three other people, all of whom weren’t talking to each other.

I cocked my head at them, because even for loners that was kind of odd, until I realized they weren’t ignoring each other. They were watching something.

I turned my head that direction. Three men in military uniforms stood next to a table cluttered with pamphlets and brochures and some photos of men overseas crouching next to brown children and some photos of them pressing their hands to their chests as they looked up at the American flag. On the wall directly above the table, they’d taped up a poster depicting an airshow. Jets flew in the same pattern migrating birds did. 

Two of the uniformed men stood watch, with their arms crossed and their legs spread wide, probably because they were so damn top heavy they might accidentally tip over. The third had his boot on the back of Jake Miller’s back as he slowly forced himself to do pushups. He was on the football team, but he was on the B team because he was a freshmen and apparently nonessential. I only knew his name because he was one of the guys that used to crowd around Jean’s locker in the morning. 

“Hey,” I hissed at the closest guy. “What’s this shit?” It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen people standing at the front of the cafeteria with their shit spread over that table before. During Valentine’s day it was where you went to send someone a sucker or flower. At the beginning of the year, the desk was covered in sign-up sheets for different clubs, and crowded by all the teachers in charge of those clubs. D.A.R.E had handed out buttons and bumper stickers and t-shirts once too. That table was always occupied, it seemed. But never with troops. 

“Military’s here to recruit seniors,” he said. “Air force, I think.”

I nodded, looking the men up and down. They all adorned buzzed heads and bored expressions. They wore rubber wedding bands and dog tags around their necks. None of them had facial hair, but they looked like the type of men that if they grew their facial hair out, it would be so thick they’d never find their chin again. The dude with his boot on Jake’s back finally freed him and Jake collapsed to the floor. 

“How much was that?” he spit.

“Seventeen,” the man answered nodding, “That’s almost the minimum pushup PT score for the women.”

“What?” Jake snapped, “I counted thirty.”

“Yeah, but you only did seventeen of ‘em right,” the man answered. 

One of the other men snorted, and Jake miller shot up from the floor cursing, and stomped back toward his table. 

“I guess it is that time of year,” the kid nearby said under his breath, squinting at the girl getting on the floor to replace Jake. 

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Its April. For most colleges, it’s too late to apply. Too late to take the SAT, too, at least if it’s your first time. All the seniors that don’t know where they’re going next year are scrambling to figure their shit out. Then the military swoops in and tells them that four years of service will get their tuition paid.” He shrugged, as if it didn’t matter to him, but I could tell he was intrigued. Almost amused. 

“I guess…that does make sense,” I said. By the sound of my voice, I didn’t think he could tell what a major fucking epiphany I was having. 

The military! I’d never even fucking considered – Hell, I didn’t even realize it was an option! Teachers and parents never brought it up. They didn’t even acknowledge it. It might as well _not_ even be an option.

But here they were. And I couldn’t stop staring. My heartrate sped up and I felt like I was suddenly lighter, less attached to the earth than I had been a moment ago. 

Without deciding to, I rose up and glided toward them in a haze after the girl left. 

“Been thinking of joining?” the man asked. His shirt was decorated with a few tiny badges. His sleeve had three stripes on it, in the same shape as the jets and the migrating birds. 

“Yeah,” I said. For like, fifteen seconds. I’d been thinking really fucking hard of joining. Enough thinking about it to know. 

“Think you can handle it?” he asked. “You’re pretty skinny.”

“So?” I spit. “What the fucks that got to do with anything?”

He smirked at me, clearly amused.

One of the other guys walked up beside the man I was talking to. “Well, _he’s_ going to have a good time in Basic.”

I kept my eyes on the one that called me skinny. He said, “First thing’s first, trainee. No swearing to your superiors. Got it?”

“Sure,” I said, even though I knew I’d have a hard time following that. 

“ _Got it_?” he repeated.

I just stared at him, until, like, every single military-orientated movie I’d ever seen in my life flashed before my eyes to rescue me.

“Oh,” I said. “Yes sir.”

“Second thing: Not talking back. No questioning orders.” He said this all very seriously, but I could tell he was just putting on a show. If I swore at him again, he wasn’t going to get in my face or reprimand me or something. This was a test. They wanted recruits – but they wanted recruits that could handle it. This was how they figured out if I could handle it. He was just doing his job. Probably just following his orders. 

I guess I always thought military guys thrived on bossing people around and intimidating them, but I knew already that wasn’t true. These guys seemed normal. I felt like they could just as easily be cops, or even less authoritative. Bouncers. Zookeepers. Construction workers. 

“Yes sir,” I said, with more confidence.

“Alright then,” he said. “Drop and give me pushups. As many as you can do.”

I did so mechanically, instinctually. I’d done pushups every day for a warm up in gym last semester. I knew I could do them. It wasn’t like I was a wimp. And I wanted to do them even more now. I wanted to prove myself. They needed to know I could handle it. 

“Hands below your shoulders,” he said. I inched my hands inward a bit. 

He placed his boot on my back, but to my surprise, none of his weight was on it. He wasn’t doing it to make the pushups harder. He was doing it for show. For the audience. And as I sunk down for my first pushup and tried to push back up, I realized he was also doing it to let me know when I’d gone low enough. I had to go low enough, or he wouldn’t let me back up. 

I had to do them right. No half-ass pushups.

So I did. One at a time, easily paced, I sunk all the way down until my elbows were bent at a ninety degree angle. By the time I’d done ten, I was dying, but I kept going. Seventeen was _almost_ the minimum for the _girls_. How many did the men have to do?

When I reached twenty, my arms were trembling. My whole body shook. I wanted to cheat. Raise my butt up. Avoid going all the way up or down. Spread my hands further apart. Anything – but I didn’t. 

At twenty six, I collapsed. 

The guy laughed, in a good-natured way. He wasn’t mocking me. When I stood up, he shook my hand, but all I cared about was how well I did in comparison to how well I’d have to do.

“Was that enough?” I asked.

He shook his head. “You’d need thirty three.”

“Are you shi – kidding me?” I asked.

“Listen kid,” he said, and placed his hand on my shoulder. “Ask these guys, if you want.” He gestured to them and both the other guys’ heads perked up. “No one joins good enough. That’s the whole point of Basic Training. To make you good enough. So don’t feel bad. You’re the first damn kid today to get to twenty six and you’re the only one that didn’t do a single pushup wrong. I got no doubt in my mind that if you swore in this month you’d pass your MEPS. Worry about your PT when you get to basic.”

I squinted and shook my head a bit in confusion. “What are MEPS?”

“Here,” said one of the other guys. “Take these. They’ll tell ya everything you need and if they somehow forgot something you’ll find about ten websites in there that’ll tell you more.”

I took them, but kept my eyes on the first guy. “How old do you have to be to swear in? I mean, what do I need to do it?”

“You need a birth certificate, or green card if you’re not a citizen. You need a high school diploma. You need to be eighteen – unless your parents will sign, then you can do it at seventeen.” The guy must have seen my face fall, because he asked, “You don’t have a green card?”

It was so hard to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Oh, look, a brown kid wants to join the military to get citizenship! Obviously! 

“No, I was born in the states,” I said, not quite reining in my irritation. “I’m sixteen. And my parents wouldn’t sign.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You’re not even a senior?”

I shook my head.

He laughed and patted me on the back. “Then you _definitely_ don’t need to worry about your PT score. You’ll be more than fit for it in a couple years. Just get your diploma, turn eighteen, and you’ll be set.”

He didn’t seem to understand how desperately I wanted to swear in, this moment, right now. 

But a crowd had formed behind me, other kids who wanted to see if they could handle the military, and I had to let them talk to the others. I sat at the same table, and the kid who’d told me about it a minute ago glanced at my collection of brochures and pamphlets and smiled.

I browsed through them, more and more invested the more I read, when suddenly I saw the word _Texas_ and remembered –

I promised Jean I wouldn’t leave him. If I joined, I’d have to go through BMT in Texas. Lackland, Air Force Base.

The bell rang, and I stuffed all the papers in my backpack. Jean was just getting out of his health class, and I wanted to catch him at his locker. Seeing him would give me clarity. Everything would make sense and the world would be back in order as soon as I saw Jean. 

…

April 15, 2016

It’s first period, in my English class. I’m supposed to be taking notes on something but I can’t even focus.

Yesterday, Eren asked me to get here as early as I could so that we could talk before class. I was already intending to do that, obviously. School’s the only place I get to see him anymore. When he asked me, I thought he was just, like, making sure. Like he just didn’t want me to forget.

But this morning, Mikasa and her boyfriend or friend or whatever he is, got out of the car and Eren stayed in it, with the car running. From inside of it, he waved me in, so that I’d get in the backseat with him. I was ready to HARDCORE make out and maybe go even further if he’d let me, but like right away I could tell that wasn’t why he wanted me to get in the backseat with him.

“What is it?” I asked, slamming the car door. 

He exhaled and forced himself to look me in the eyes. “I figured out what I’m doing after high school.”

“Oh yeah?” I smiled, but he didn’t, and so I stopped smiling, because that meant I should be nervous. And I was. So nervous, right off the bat.

“Jean…hear me out, okay? You trust me?”

“Dude, you’re literally the only person I trust.” And it was true. I didn’t understand why he’d ask. 

“And you love me?”

Then I REALLY got nervous because…did he think whatever he was about to tell me was dependent on me loving him? And like, did he honestly think it was possible for me to stop loving him? 

“Yeah, Eren, what the hell?” I asked. “You know I do. I love you.” I blushed as I said it, because I still kind of wasn’t used to saying it. Makes me feel weak. But I mean, I’m gay. I’m literally going to have to say the words “I’m gay” for the rest of my life so I should really stop getting embarrassed whenever I express an ounce of emotion that isn’t sheer rage. 

Anyway. 

He’s like, “I’m joining the Air Force.” Just like that. Like he’d say anything. How fucked up is that? He could have been like, “I’m ordering pizza” and it literally wouldn’t have sounded any different. 

I think that’s why I flipped my shit. 

I wish I could say I didn’t, but I so did. I threw all his brochures out the door into a puddle. I screamed at him even though he was just a foot away from me. I – I guilt-tripped him bad. 

I was like, “After everything? You’re gonna fucking abandon me after all the shit I’ve been through to fucking be with you?!”

And he’s not any different than me. He’s yelling too. All, “I didn’t fucking make you come out, okay! Don’t act like this is my fucking fault! I told you I needed to fucking get out of here and now – how else am I gonna do it?! I don’t even fucking have a home anymore! Armin can’t keep me forever!”

He got out of the car and kicked the tire. Started crying. Then got even angrier because he was crying and people could see. I got out of the car and glared at each one of the people staring so that they would know what would happen if they said ANYTHING to him about it. 

But they kept walking, and Eren kept crying and kicking the car. Until he left a dent and he remembered the car wasn’t his. 

I convinced him to get back in. 

“Okay,” I said, “What made you decide this? Have you even, like, thought about it? You could _die_ dude. I can’t – you know I could never –”

I couldn’t get through my sentence. I couldn’t even think of him getting shot hypothetically.

“If you would have _read_ the fucking shit I handed you,” he said, “You would know that I don’t have to be the guy on the front lines getting shot. I could be…like, a gate guard. Or the guy that takes pictures of airshows. Or…a firefighter. I could be a lot of different things in the military that won’t get me killed.”

That shut me up for a minute, but it wasn’t enough to make me feel better. I ended up crying too, but not like Eren. Eren cries like he wants to spill everything inside of him out on the pavement.

I cried silently while staring at the floor. “I told you not to get my hopes up. You fucking promised, Eren.”

He took my hand. “Look, Jean –”

And I had to cut him off. “No. Listen. How am I supposed to get through my last year without you? Seriously, tell me.”

“JEAN.” He scooted closer to me, then. Kissed my cheek and ear and neck and got me all softened up first. “I’m gonna keep my promise. I’m –”

“You said you’d have to go to Texas.”

“I would. But I wouldn’t enlist until you graduate. I would stay here your last year of high school. Get a job. Somewhere…to stay, I guess. Maybe Armin’s, if I’m paying rent. I don’t know. But I’ll stay until you graduate.”

“Great,” I said. “You’re keeping your promise for a WHOLE year. Fucking AWESOME.”

“No, you idiot,” he said, and he placed his hands on both sides of my face. “You’d enlist too. You’d come with me. And we’d both get out of here.”

He started kissing me, but I don’t think I moved my lips. I was numb. In shock. I was trying to figure out a way to say no to him. Sometimes Eren gets an idea in his head and his head makes it law. Like it can’t be changed or…like it always was that way or something. I knew he probably believed that this solved everything and I was going with him and wouldn’t object to this at all.

When I didn’t kiss him back he looked me in the eyes. “I’m not supposed to be here, Jean. I know you don’t believe in God, or…stuff that’s you know…meant to be, or whatever. You don’t ever do something because your gut tells you to and that’s –”

I smiled then. “That’s ALL you do.”

He smiled too. Exhaled, feeling relieved, I guess. “Exactly. And I’m telling you…Just STOP thinking. Stop trying to find an excuse to be away from me. If you don’t listen to your gut, listen to mine. Okay?”

I still wasn’t 100% percent convinced. Hell, I’m not even that convinced now, as I write. 

But…it did change something, hearing him say that. He started the conversation by asking if I trusted him and I do. I really do. And what does it say about me if I can’t even listen to the one person I trust on the planet when he asks me to? I mean, I don’t even trust MYSELF as much as I trust Eren. So I did exactly what he said. I stopped thinking and gave him what he wanted. 

“Okay,” I said. “You stay though. That year. You stay. And if you’re at my graduation, I’ll enlist with you.”

He beamed and started kissing me the way I’d been craving all last week and…We didn’t get to use our second to last condom but thank God we made up after the fight because Eren went down on me and I nearly 

(Later, in sixth period.) 

Ever since this morning, something hasn’t felt right. Like, I just feel sick. Or paranoid or anxious or like, everything at once. I’ve got the worst feeling. I think this is the type of thing Eren would refer to as a sign, or following my gut or whatever.

But I think I just figured out why I feel like this.

Eren can’t stay with Armin for three more years, for one. I know he’s hoping for that because right now it’s like his only option but…like, honestly, Armin already took in Mikasa. How’s he gonna take in Eren too?

And… the thing is Dad’s gonna kick me out any day. He’s already threatened to a couple of times. The only thing stopping him is Mom. Every time he brings it up, she distracts him with dinner or something and he shuts up. 

Where would I go, though? I know there’s like, shelters and stuff for gay kids that will take them in until their 18 or whatever but I really doubt there’s one in Superior. I’d probably have to live in Duluth. Away from Eren. 

I can’t wait any longer to get rid of my dad. He has to leave. Not just soon. TODAY. 

…

Someone knocked on my door. 

“Yeah?” I said, somewhat surprised. After dinner and doing this dishes each night, I was usually left alone. Even from Mikasa.

“Phone’s for you. It’s Jean,” Armin said. 

I leapt out of bed and swung the door open. Both Mikasa and Armin stood on the other side, Armin with the phone in his hand. I took it from him.

“Everything okay?” Mikasa asked. 

Earlier today I’d told her about my fight with Jean. Last night, when we talked about me enlisting, she wasn’t exactly happy but she admitted that if I wasn’t going to college it was the next best thing. By the end of the conversation, she had decided to enlist too. Mom and Dad weren’t going to pay for her college anymore, after all. She needed her tuition paid too. Armin said that if the military permitted trans men to enlist, he might even do it. 

“They will,” Mikasa automatically said. “Someday, they will.”

“I mean,” I started, “They got rid of the whole ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ thing so…if they’re cool with gay people now, trans people are the next step.”

Mikasa nodded, patting Armin’s thigh. He smiled and nodded too. I wasn’t sure he was convinced by anything we said.

“I guess we’ll see,” he’d said, smiling. “My transition would be entirely paid for if they did.” 

By the time Armin said that, we were all daydreaming about it. The thought of the only other two people I cared about in my life joining the military with Jean and me made me almost deliriously excited. My hopes flew way too high. But how could I help it? For the first time in my life, my future felt like it was up to me. 

“It’s only a matter of time,” I’d said. 

That made me so optimistic this morning, I thought for sure it would be just as easy to convince Jean. But now I wasn’t so sure. I wanted to talk to him more about it, but I didn’t want to pressure him or upset him again. 

“I’ll let you guys know,” I told Mikasa and Armin, before shutting the door and sitting back on my bed. I put the phone to my ear. “Hey…”

“Eren?” he asked.

“It’s me.”

“I need you.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “ _God_ , I know right? This morning wasn’t enough –” 

Jean snorted. “Not like that. But good to know.”

My cheeks heated up. “Then like what?”

“I need you to come over. Right now. I’m getting rid of my dad.” 

I sprung up from where I sat, already sliding my shoes on. “What?! Tonight? I mean – wait – _How_?”

“Just come over,” he blurted. I heard a loud noise in the background, and that set my heart into a panic.

“Mikasa!” I yelled, loud enough she’d hear me across the hall but not loud enough Armin’s hard-of-hearing grandpa would hear and come asking what the hell I was yelling about. A few seconds later, Mikasa cracked my door, waiting for an explanation rather than asking what I called about. She agreed to take me to Jean’s. Armin immediately headed down the stairs to tell his grandpa we were seeing a movie. 

_God_ , God, you made that kid think quickly. Thank you for that. Now we’ll get to be out of the house for a few hours, just in case. 

Not even ten minutes later we were all out the door and into Armin’s car. Mikasa drove. She was the only one of the three of us that could drive fast but also safely.

“Did he say why?” Mikasa asked, when we were stopped at a red light I contemplated asking her to run through.

“Just that he needs me,” I said. Even if they both knew that this must have something to do with Jean’s dad, I wasn’t going to admit that. If I told them Jean was “Getting rid of his dad”, I didn’t know how they’d react. Especially Armin. I doubted it would take him long to figure out that whatever Jean was doing, it was probably illegal. And I didn’t know what kind of moral conscience Armin had. Given that the kid was trans and had been bullied his whole life, I thought I could trust him to know that what was law wasn’t always what was right, but I couldn’t take the risk. I knew Mikasa wouldn’t give a shit if Jean broke the law. My fear with her was that if she knew Jean was doing something dangerous she wouldn’t let me help him. 

The drive over took hours in my head. Each passing second felt like I lost Jean. Like if he wasn’t killed by his dad the previous second, then obviously he couldn’t survive this one. 

When Mikasa finally pulled up, both she and Armin turned around. 

“We’ll be waiting,” she said. 

“Text us if you need anything,” Armin said, patting my shoulder. 

With that, I hopped out of the car and sprinted through the front door, swinging it open and slamming it against the wall –

Which I instantly realized was both:

 

1) A really bad idea.

2) Not what Jean wanted, 

3) Nor expected me to do. 

 

Because Jean and his dad were fighting. Jean noticed me, and his eyes widened for just a fraction of a second before quickly returning his attention to his distracted dad. He didn’t notice Jean’s eyes flicking to me, despite my dramatic entrance. He was a bit preoccupied because this wasn’t just Jean getting beaten while trying to get away. Jean fought back. His dad had Jean pinned against the wall by his throat, choking him. But because his dad lifted him off the ground, Jean was able to kick. And he pummeled his shoes into his dad gut until his dad had to hunch his back, trying to get his stomach out of the range of Jean’s feet.

I leapt forward to intervene. To hit Jean’s dad. But Jean shook his head frantically while his dad was still hunched and wouldn’t see. 

I gave Jean a look like _why_? 

His eyes drifted slowly, meaningfully toward a box just a few feet behind Jean’s dad. Golf clubs stood out from the box and rested against the wall partition between Jean’s living room and the hallway. I lurched forward, snatched one up and swung at Jean’s dad like I was trying to kill a mother bear whose cub I’d gone too near. 

Jean’s dad growled and swung around with crazed, blood shot eyes and spit shooting between his crooked teeth. His breath reeked of alcohol. Sweat sheened across his forehead. His gaze wasn’t focused, as he meandered toward me. 

Looking over his shoulder at Jean, he screamed, “Is this him?! Is this the other faggot?!”

I clunked the gulf club against his back. He yelped and fell forward, stumbling on his feet and trying to press his hand against the spot I hit him. “Yes!” I yelled, directly beside his ear. 

Jean lunged for another gulf club and held it up like a light saber. “Call the police, Eren!” And then, to his dad, “You hear that, motherfucker! Hit me again! Leave a fucking mark for all I care, because guess what, Dad?! I’m putting your ass back in prison!” 

“What?” I yelled at Jean, because I didn’t expect calling the police to be part of the plan. I didn’t know Jean intended to do the logical, justified thing adults would recommend. I just thought we were going to beat the shit out of him until he either left or died. I wouldn’t care either way. 

“And stop hitting him!” Jean screamed back. 

I gave Jean a questioning look just as Jean’s dad jumped up, yanked the golf club from Jean’s hands and swung. “The fuck you are, boy!” 

I died in that moment. I swear I died, for an instant. As Jean’s dad planted the end of that golf club against Jean’s head, everything in my body switched off and I turned into a living dead person. I thought about my history class, and how last semester we learned about the guillotine. My teacher was really into freaking us out, because he told us a story that went like this:

During whatever period the guillotine was popular, the whatever people who used the guillotine wanted to know if the people they were killing with the guillotine were still alive for a little bit after their head was chopped off because this was the middle ages (probably. I couldn’t remember for sure) and people were fucked up like that. And so like, they used one guy they were about to decapitate as a guinea pig. And they were all like, “Yo, if you’re still alive after we kill you, blink twice for us, okay?” and that dude who was about to die was like, “Yeah, sure, no probs.” And then they decapitated him with the guillotine, and his head thumped against the ground, and everyone watching saw his eyes blink twice slowly before the man checked out permanently. 

My teacher explained _that_ was how clean the guillotine cut. So clean, that people’s brains didn’t even know what happened. The brain didn’t even have time to shut off before the head hit the ground. 

And that man, with his body severed from him, had to stare up at the word knowing that in the next millisecond, he’d no longer be alive.

That was how I felt in the moment Jean fell back, clearly unconscious. The sound his body made hitting the wall and collapsing into the tool box on the floor, echoed in my head. And instead of my life, it was his that flashed before my eyes. The first time I saw his dad shove him over, the sound of his scream in my ear canal, the scream that was still so clear in my head right now. The night he climbed through my window, nose bleeding and tears sliding down his face as he clung to me, a near-stranger, for life. Drawing on his arms, teaching him how to keep himself safe from himself, teaching him that his body didn’t deserve to be abused, he didn’t deserve to feel pain. Watching the bruises on his stomach fade day by day, while each night I kissed them as if my lips could heal every ailment his dad could cause. Jean had become hard, distrustful, faithless, hateful, and more than anything he’d become a man made of suffering. 

God, would you let Jean die like this? 

Mr. Kirstein, would you let your son die because of this?

Why? 

The words were screams in my head, echoing and ricocheting off my skull.

_why?...whY?...wHY?....WHY?!...WHYWHYWHYWHY?!_

Jean’s dad pivoted to face me, but he was way over there, way back in time, before Jean fell to the ground and my head was detached from my lungs and heart and blood and spine. 

I had to remember what he asked me to do. But my memory had been wiped when I died. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t even focus. Couldn’t even feel fear of his dad, who was reaching for me with one arm, swinging the golf club with the other, opening his mouth and letting out all the noise he held like a fucking hyena, about to knock me out too. Maybe kill me. Again. 

But when I made eye contact with Jean’s dad, who had blue eyes, not hazel and nothing like Jean’s, and his spit landed against my face, I remembered all at once what Jean needed me to do and how fucking _badly_ he needed me to do it. 

He called me and asked me to come here because he knew he couldn’t do it alone. He knew his dad would be beating him, and he wouldn’t have a chance in hell to call the police. 

I ducked. Jean’s dad swung at air and the momentum pulled him forward. I wrapped my arms around his legs, and he tumbled to the floor, face first. The club smacked against the hallway wall, puncturing the sheet rock. Jean’s dad plummeted, slapping his face against hardwood. He groaned and pressed his hand against his face, testing the damage. 

I had a few seconds. I searched for the phone, only to realize that the phone sat on the partition, directly above the golf clubs.

Earlier, when I followed Jean’s gaze, he meant for me to see the phone, not the golf clubs.

While I still didn’t understand why Jean didn’t want me to hit his dad, I did as he said. I yanked the wireless phone off the hook. Jean’s dad was already standing up, and if I wanted to make this call, I’d need at least a few minutes of sanctuary. Sprinting for the bathroom, I dove at the last second onto the tiles, just out of Jean’s dad’s reach, and kicked the door shut behind me. The doorknob was twisting just as I locked it. 

I dialed 911, all while Jean’s dad pounded against the door, trying to break it down.

I knew he wasn’t just mad and crazed and trying to hurt me because that’s what abusive drunk men did, anymore. Now he was trying to stop this phone call from happening.

The 911 operator answered with the whole, “This is 911, what is your emergency?”

“Uh…” I started, panicking. My heart was pounding faster than Jean’s dad’s fists and everything was suddenly so loud I couldn’t remember what my emergency was. “Uh, my uh – my boyfriend’s dad is trying to kill me. I mean, my boyfriend actually. And me. Uh –”

“Does he have a weapon?” she asked, almost sarcastically. It was then I realized that she thought I was exaggerating, or pranking her or something and she was testing me to see how serious the situation actually was. Probably, she was thrown off by a male voice referring to “his boyfriend”. That made me furious, but instead of screaming at her I ground my teeth together. 

“No, but he already knocked my boyfriend out – uh, I think he might be – might be…” but I couldn’t say it. 

“Are you somewhere safe from him?” she asked.

“I locked myself in the bathroom.” From the other side of the door, Jean’s dad started pounding harder and threatening me. The operator made a sound like oh-I-hear-him and must have suddenly realized this was a real emergency and not a prank phone call or shitty situation that didn’t qualify as an emergency. 

“What’s your address?” she asked, all business now.

“Oh, it’s – shit,” I spit. I didn’t know his address. I didn’t know the house number, anyway. I should, but I didn’t. “Um, okay it’s on 23rd St. But uh, I don’t know the house number. It’s my boyfriend’s house but – It’s the house on the right of 264.”

“What?” She asked, and I groaned. She either couldn’t keep up with my gibberish or Jean’s dad was being too loud. I sat on the floor against the door, just to put more resistance on it. But he was kicking hard, and the door shook. The doorknob rattled. The only reason he hadn’t broken it down already was because he was drunk and either couldn’t aim for the right spot to kick or had so little coordination he kept missing. “You said 264 23rd St.?” she asked.

“It’s the house directly to the right of 264 23rd St.”

“We’re sending an ambulance and the police. I’ll stay on the line with you until they arrive,” she said. 

I hoped she heard me right. She continued to ask me questions and I answered them mechanically, barely paying attention to her. Now that she’d sent an ambulance, all I could do was count the seconds. I put her on speaker, which made her panic at first that Jean’s dad had gotten through the door. I explained he hadn’t while I texted Armin to have Mikasa pull the car out of the way for the ambulance. He started flooding my phone with more texts, asking me if Mikasa should come in, if I needed him to call 911, if I was hurt. As much as I could, I kept up with both the operator and Armin. 

But when I heard Jean curse as he stumbled down the hall, I forgot all about my phone. Seconds later, Jean was attacking his dad, trying to pull him away from the door. Slam after slam against the walls in the hall, I still had no idea whose body was being thrown around. I thought about how small Jean was in comparison to his dad, and my whole body trembled. My only consolation was that Jean wasn’t killed by the golf club’s blow. He’d gotten up.

I wanted so badly to leave the bathroom, but I knew I couldn’t. If something happened, if the cops didn’t show up, if they got lost, I needed to have access to the phone still. 

Finally, I heard the sirens approaching. At first I thought I imagined it, but then they were blaring directly into my ear. All the raucous on the other side of the door halted, and Jean’s dad stomped toward the front door. Jean tapped the handle, and I slipped out of the bathroom, uttering into the phone to the operator that they had found the house. 

Jean’s head swelled and bled. He still had to heal from the last beating his dad gave him. One ear torn, one lip ripped, a swollen eye and head, finger-shaped bruises to his neck, and one hand gripping his stomach, Jean _did_ look like his dad had tried to kill him.

He kissed me. “Did he hit you? Are you okay?”

I scoffed. “What the fuck, Jean. Of course I’m okay. But you look like hell swallowed you and threw you back up.”

He winced and rubbed his jaw. “Feels like I did, too.”

I pulled him into my arms by his waist and held him for a moment, almost forgetting that this wasn’t over. I jerked my head back. “Jean…Where’d your dad go?”

We both turned our heads at the same time. The front door was left wide open. Cops were flicking flashlights on and pointing them at Jean’s dad, just out of sight, even though it was barely seven and the sun had only just begun to set. Together, with my arm wrapped around him, we stood in the doorway. 

Jean’s dad was trying to prove he wasn’t drunk, even though he was. The cop asked him to walk in a straight line, and he attempted to walk a straight line as if he were walking on a tight-rope and would fall to his death if he tripped. Which he did. Trip, that is, not to his death. Unfortunately. 

“How’s he so drunk already?” I asked. “Didn’t he just get home?”

Jean shook his head. “On Fridays he has half days.”

Then the cop asked Jean’s dad to sing the alphabet backwards. Jean’s dad refused, so the cop skipped right to the breathalyzer test. Jean turned his head away, either in shame or disgust, as his dad swatted the breathalyzer test out of the cops hand and attempted to punch the officer. 

Jean pressed his forehead into my shoulder. Just as I was about to pull his hood up for him, Jean’s dad cursed, and threatened to kill the officer.

Jean’s head swung around in time to see Jean’s dad reach for the officer’s gun. He got a hold of it, swung his arm up to aim, but the officer clasped Jean’s dad’s wrist in his hand and yanked it aside. He couldn’t disarm it before Jean’s dad fired it. All the cops, the paramedics, the neighbors watching, Jean and I jolted at once, before clapping our hands over our ears to shield them. It took me a second, but I realized Jean and I had covered each other’s ears, not our own. I smiled at that, but Jean was staring wide-eyed at his dad. 

“Oh my God,” Jean gasped, over the sounds of everyone nearby – either screaming orders, or just plain screaming. 

“What?” I asked, eyes still on Jean’s dad. I could smell him from here. His back and armpits were so sweaty a stain bled through every surface of his ripped white T-shirt while he struggled with the sober, and much stronger cop who still, miraculously, held onto Jean’s dad’s wrist. He slipped in the damp grass the same second one of the other nearby officers unleashed his tazor right in Jean’s dad’s stomach. The other cops – two of them, originally lean against their flaring red-and-blue squad cars – had now drawn and aimed their weapons. 

We stared, mesmerized by the sight of jolts of electricity seizing Jean’s dad, as if trying to bring him back from the dead. He drooled and flopped on the lawn, staining his jeans with mud. Unable to control himself, he howled until his voice sizzled into a scratchy croak.

“What?” I asked Jean, again. He looked as though he’d just invented a form of renewable energy. Like he’d just stumbled upon the cure for cancer. Nothing like the disgust and horror that must have bene displayed on my face.

“He just tried to shoot a cop,” Jean said. 

“I know. Shit’s fucked up,” I said. 

“No, you don’t get it. He’s not just gonna get charged for domestic abuse or petty shit like disorderly conduct.”

I stared at Jean, blankly, even though I knew I should have caught on to what he was implying. But Jean didn’t seem to mind my incompetence. He even smiled, wryly. 

“Last time my dad went away, he got a sentence of two years. Got out on good behavior. But this…this is gonna put him away for a…a _long_ time.”

His grin spread a little wider, as if he couldn’t help it, as if he couldn’t control his face anymore. I smiled then too. We actually got rid of his dad. For good. He couldn’t come back this time. Or, at least, by the time he’d have the option to come back, Jean would no longer be here. But…what about…?

“Shit,” I said. “Jean…your mom’s still married to him.”

He sighed. “I know. I – I’m still figuring that one out.”

I nodded, because we couldn’t talk anymore. The three cops it took to get Jean’s dad into cuffs, were finally hauling him into the back of a squad car. Two paramedics approached Jean, seeing that he was the only person around in immediate need of attention. Mikasa and Armin pulled up from my left, parking on the right, at the exact moment Jean’s mom pulled from my right, and parked behind the ambulance. All of this seemed to happen at once, and I was dizzy with the motion around me. 

I tried to follow the paramedics guiding Jean to the ambulance, but Jean’s mom got there first and Mikasa got to me right after. A paramedic began taking all of Jean’s vitals, as the one remaining cop questioned him about what had happened. Right then, Mikasa lifted me off the ground into a hug, full of tears, and I snapped at her to put me down and swatted at her back. 

“We thought someone was shot,” Armin explained, hugging me too, the moment she put me down. “We were both so worried it was one of you.”

“I’m fine,” I grumbled, still being coddled by Mikasa as she rotated me, searching for harm. “Seriously, not even a scratch. Now, let me go see Jean.” I shoved them both out of my way, but Jean had disappeared into the back of the ambulance with his mom. One cop car pulled away, then another, tailing the ambulance down the block. The only people left were the nosy neighbors. 

“What!” I yelled at them. “Got nothing better to do?!” 

Shamefully, they all turned around and scurried back into their homes. After that, Armin and Mikasa ushered me back toward Armin’s car. Mikasa actually buckled me in, for me. 

“We have to go to the hospital,” I said.

“They probably won’t tell you what room he’s in if you’re not family,” Armin said.

“I’ll be the adopted brother,” I spit, “Take me to the hospital.” 

“Jean’s not even in intensive care,” Mikasa said, as she put the key in ignition. “He’s just going to get some stitches in the emergency room.” 

“His dad hit him in the head with a golf club!” 

Mikasa and Armin gave each other concerned looks. Internally, they made a decision I apparently had no say in, because Mikasa took the turn toward Armin’s house, not the hospital. 

“What the hell!” I yelled. 

“He was conscious,” Armin said. “He was walking. I bet he just has a concussion, Eren. I’m sure he’s in good hands. We should probably let him be with his mom right now, don’t you think?”

“No,” I muttered, but they ignored me. By the time we pulled into Armin’s driveway, I realized Armin was probably right. As far as I knew, Jean’s mom had no idea Jean set this up. He had a lot of explaining to do, a lot to fill her in on, and they both had to figure out what they were going to do without Jean’s dad around. He might have been Satan’s pet asshole, but Jean’s dad provided half their income, and Mrs. Kirstein still had to divorce him. I had no idea if child support was a thing if the parent was in prison.

My heartrate spiked again. What if Jean had to move?

But Mikasa and Armin were pulling me out of the car, looping one of their arms into each of mine. Apparently, they were both determined to keep my mind preoccupied for the rest of the night, because Armin put a movie in and Mikasa preheated the oven to bake cookies and both of them were talking nonstop to me about everything that didn’t matter.

I looked at the clock. It was ten past eight. Tonight would be a long one. And I wouldn’t hear from Jean until tomorrow, at earliest. 

I decided to go along with Mikasa and Armin’s plan.

…

April 16, 2016

I spent all night at the hospital, so I couldn’t write until now. 

I’m still kind of in shock. I got rid of my dad. I came home to an empty house with my mom today, and it felt like the fight happened a hundred years ago. Like the house belonged to a different family altogether, and we were just moving in today. In a really cheesy stupid way, that’s true. 

Mom didn’t want to talk about anything last night, after I explained everything that happened. After I told her it was my plan, she told me to shut up, because she didn’t want to be concerned about me and mad at me at the same time. So I listened, and she let me sleep.

I know this isn’t over until Mom says it is. But the worst of it is, and I’m going to take a nap on the couch, downstairs, for the first time in my life. 

… 

April 22, 2016

It’s been a week since I kicked my dad out. GOD, I feel like shit. But I’ve also never felt better. Dad gave me a concussion, which, you know I’m kinda surprised he’s never given me one before. So I don’t really mind. It’s my eyes that are killing me. I can barely fucking see out of either of them, and it hurts to blink. My voice is all scratchy too, from him choking me. I look like I stepped right out of a horror film. Everyone at school avoids me like the plague. Except Eren, obviously. He’s clingier than hell. He’s never been a clingy boyfriend before, so it’s kinda surreal. But I don’t mind. I wish I could be around him more, but at least I don’t have to hide. Being openly gay at home and school makes me feel like I’ve stepped into an entirely different life, or world for that matter. It’s kind of overwhelming. 

Overwhelming and…super weird with Mom. Not because of the gay thing, obviously. Just…the dad stuff. She’s both mad at me, and grateful. 

The good news is, she told me she’d divorce Dad ASAP. She’s already looking up divorce attorney’s at work during her lunch breaks. I think she’s finally ready. She’s finally more pissed off at him than afraid of him. Also, Mom told me this morning that my dad’s and her taxes came in today. As a fifteen-year-old, I have zero idea what the means, and I thought it was a bad thing – I mean, it sounds like a bad thing – but Mom was so relieved she cried. Before, whenever her taxes came back, my dad would take that money and blow it on something, like disappearing for a week or two and getting thrown in jail for the night. That sort of thing. But now, apparently, the “tax returns” should help support us until she can find a new, better-paying job. She reminded me in a year I can get a job, too. So, after that I think everything will be back to the way it was. We won’t be rich or anything but all that mattered when my dad was around was paying bills and eating food. Why should it be any different now?

The bad news is, she’s upset I provoked my dad. She keeps telling me that if Eren hadn’t shown up, if he couldn’t make it in time, Dad would have killed me and she’s probably right. She’s mad I called her after school and asked her to go get groceries. She tells me she should have been there to call, and I shouldn’t have relied on Eren so much. But, come on, like, Dad could’ve killed her too. That was the whole point of making sure she wasn’t home when I picked a fight. And I didn’t want to have to rely on Eren. I mean, the whole time he was here I was panicking Dad was going to hit him too. And of course Eren jumps into the fight balls first, ready to beat my dad to death with a fucking golf club. Doesn’t even TRY to protect himself, or hide or anything. God, he doesn’t know how to be discreet for shit. 

I know there was probably better ways to get rid of my dad besides telling him my plan to enlist with Eren and what I plan on asking Eren, the next time I get him alone. Which is probably never. But that might be good, because I’m still kind of…psyching myself up for it. 

Part of me knows it’s crazy. But the other part of me, the part of me that’s been spending every study hall in the library researching military shit, the part of me that knows Eren better than anyone, also knows that Eren’s the only person who’d think my bad idea is a good idea to pair with his bad idea. 

I trust him. My whole life is starting over without my dad in it. I have a future I actually look forward to, with a boyfriend who’s promised to stay in it, and I trust him.

That’s all I need or want or could have ever hoped to have. 

…

Everything I owned – everything I managed to grab before my dad forced me out of the house – was packed up in either my backpack or my gym bag. Mikasa had parked outside of our parents’ house – Just sound weird thinking of it as “their house” and not my own, you know? But whatever – and she, Armin and I stared up at it. Since we’d driven here straight from school, I knew neither of them were home. But I still hesitated to go in.

“You can’t live on three pairs of underwear forever,” Mikasa had said, this morning while I packed. “You’re going to need to go home and grab some things.”

“Um, _you_ didn’t,” I said. 

“I packed more than three pairs of underwear. And Armin’s grandpa is willing to support me. And I have a job. And I’m enlisting this summer, but you won’t be able to for a while. So. You need to go home.”

I groaned. 

Why can’t you just let me off the hook, for once, Mikasa? You’re not Mom. I mean, you’re a better mom than Mom, but still. 

“Fine,” I said, because the sooner I got this over with, the sooner I could see Jean. “But you’re coming with.”

She rolled her eyes, knowing that I was trying to punish her. “I know.”

So here we were.

“Well?” she asked. 

“What am I supposed to do? Just walk in?” 

She glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “Is there another way?”

Armin grinned, sheepishly, before turning around to look at me. “Why don’t you go in the back then, if it’ll make you feel better.”

“How ‘bout I throw a brick at the window and make it look like a burglary?” That was rhetorical but I was beginning to understand this was the type of social que Armin frequently ignored.

“I really suggest not doing that,” he said, already looking slightly concerned.

“They’d know it was you,” Mikasa said, indifferently.

I huffed before climbing out of the car and running to the backyard. After climbing up the porch steps, I reached for the handle and smacked my head into the door. It took me a moment to realize the reason I smacked my forehead into the door, was because my entire body fully expected and prepared for the door to swing open, but it did not. Huh. We’d never locked it before.

I kicked up the welcome mat underneath my feet, grabbed the key my parents certainly forgot was there, and slid it into the keyhole. 

But the key wouldn’t unlock it. I stared at the door like what-the-fuck-is- _your_ -problem? for at least a minute before I knew why it wouldn’t work. 

And the reality of it wiped the scorn right off my face, and replaced it with shock. My hand was still on the doorknob, but I knew I’d never get it open again. 

My parents had changed the locks on us. 

They…actually…were so unwilling to have us in the house, under any circumstances, that they locked us out permanently. All at once I knew that my stuff wasn’t in my old room anymore. Anything I’d left behind, they’d most definitely thrown out. For sure, they’d done the same thing with Mikasa’s room. 

I shouldn’t have been surprised. But I was. And it was bubbling up inside me. My eyes stung, until the tears boiled over and I had to wipe my face on my sleeve. I punched the door, yelped in pain, and then kicked it, then yelped in pain again. Unable to hold myself up anymore, I slumped to the porch floorboards and pulled my hood over my head to cry privately.

I couldn’t believe it. I mean, yeah, okay, I could. I really could. But…what the _fuck_? Why even adopt me?! Why even adopt a child if you can’t love them the way you’re supposed to?! When did they stop loving me? When I came out? Or way before that when they knew I wouldn’t turn into the successful vision of their son? Did they _ever_ love me, at all?

I laughed, actually, when the irony hit me: I _would_ become the successful vision of their son. They would have never accepted a son that didn’t go to college. But…they would having fucking _applauded_ a military boy. They would have fucking _bragged_ about me. And if they had just let me be lost for a few weeks, I would have made them proud. 

That hurt. But it all made me feel fucking great. Fuck them, anyway. When they found out about me enlisting, they were going to fucking hate themselves. And that was the best revenge I could have ever come up with.

Something _pinged_ against nearby glass, and I looked up. Jean stood in his bedroom window, looking down at me. He slid the window open, and climbed out on the roof so that he could face me more easily. 

“What gives?! Forget where my house is? Thought you were moving in with me!” he yelled, louder than he needed to, and I snorted, managing to smile after all. “Or did you decide to _abandon me_ for the shitbags next door?”

“I was gonna – nevermind,” I said. I’d fill him in later. Mikasa just walked around the corner, probably decided that I’d been in the house so long, I probably needed help carrying stuff. I yelled up to him, “Be right there!” and to Mikasa, more quietly, “They changed the locks on us.”

Mikasa looked impressed. “No shit?” 

“Yeah,” I said.

“Armin called it,” she said. “Just now. In the car.”

“Of course he did,” I said, rolling my eyes.

Mikasa glanced up at Jean, smoking on his rooftop. She didn’t look pleased. “You’re not going to start smoking, too, are you?” she asked me, without looking away from him.

“No,” I said, “And lay off, okay?”

She ignored me, still staring at him. 

He waved, awkwardly, and put the cigarette out on the roof, throwing it into the gutter so it wouldn’t be in sight anymore. “Uh, hi,” he mumbled. “Thanks for the cigarettes. I don’t smoke that much, I swear.”

She blinked a few times. “No problem,” she said, before returning her attention to me. 

“Relax, okay? You won’t have to buy them for him again,” I said. 

She waved me off. “Are you ready then?” 

I smiled and nodded. “I am.”

“And you’ll visit?” she asked, again.

I nodded, again. “As often as you’re willing to come pick me up. Us up.”

“Us?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t ask you to leave Armin behind.”

She sighed deeply, but nodded. 

I grinned, and hugged her. “You’ll warm up to him.”

“Uh-huh,” she said. But she turned around and cupped her hands around her mouth, shouting, “If you break up with him I’ll fucking kill you!”

Jean pressed his lips into a thin line, and saluted her as she headed back to her car.

“She’s got a worse anger problem than me,” he hissed.

I laughed. “Yeah, but she knows how to manage hers.”

He smiled, and pulled out another cigarette. “Are you moving in, or what? Fucking get up here, already.”

“Okay,” I said. 

Ten minutes later, I had heaved my bags through Jean’s front door. Before I could ask where to go or what to do, Mrs. K was wrapping me in her big arms and shaking me back and forth so tightly I couldn’t breathe. Jean jogged down the stairs and started snapping at his mom to let me go and go away she was embarrassing him.

“Oh, goodness, you're cuter up close!” she cooed and Jean blushed redder than I’d ever seen. He literally pushed her, like a lawnmower, into the kitchen.

“Can’t you just like, wait until dinner for all that?” 

“Oh, sure, sure,” she said, “See you at dinner, Eren. And Jean, you’ll be down to set the table before?” Though this technically was a question, it was clearly meant to be a demand.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jean said, running his fingers through his hair. He was grinning uncontrollably, and I thought I knew why: He’d never eaten dinner at the table before. He’d thought that was weird, about my family, how we always forced each other to sit around a table and get along just to eat every night. But I thought now he understood. Either that, or he’d only said that before to act like he didn’t care. To act like he wasn’t jealous. 

He turned to me, took me by the hand, and walked me upstairs. 

“Just so you know, we’re gonna get the house clean, okay? Like, you won’t be living in this.”

“You know I don’t care, like, at all, right?” I said. He looked at me like he thought I was lying. “Seriously. And, you’re not just gonna clean everything on your own. Or be the only one setting the table, either. I live here now. I’m not like, a fucking guest. I don’t expect this to be like a hotel.”

He didn’t respond, but I could tell he was thankful to hear me say that. It sounded so unlike me, to be so thoughtful and considerate, so I didn’t blame him for assuming I’d be ungrateful or unhelpful. But, really, I _wanted_ to earn my keep. I _wanted_ Mrs. K to love me, and not just because Jean did. I wanted her to think I was the type of guy she would have picked out for Jean anyway. I wanted to get a job, and have chores, and follow the house rules, or whatever. Whatever she needed me to do. It wasn’t just for Jean, either. This was my new life, and I was going to do it right this time.

“Well,” Jean said, at the top of the stairs. “My mom and dad shared a room, despite everything. And we don’t have like, a guest room. So…” And he gave me a lecherous grin, then, the one that made me fall in love with him. “We have to share.”

“Aw, _damn_ it,” I said, holding in a laugh. I gave him an identical grin as we ducked into his bedroom, shutting the door behind me. He pressed my back into his door and wrapped his arms around my waist, locking the door just before his hands crept up underneath my shirt. I slid mine around his neck. And we were kissing, and stumbling to his bed, and undressing and not even bothering to be quiet.

“Shouldn’t we,” I started.

“She knows the drill,” he breathed, pulling his shirt over his head.

“She _does_?” I asked, unable to believe she’d actually permit us to have sex. 

“Well, no, not exactly,” he said, easing my shirt off right after. “But I think she’ll let it slide, this time. Since, you know…”

“I know,” I gasped, as his hand dipped beneath my boxers. Since, we’d been apart for so long. And since we’d been through so much shit. And since we finally got our happy ending. 

Finally, all our clothes lay on the floor. Finally, we got to use our second to last condom, and like I expected, Jean would make up for all the lost time. Two hours later, Jean _happened_ to notice the time, and that his mom would be expecting him to go downstairs and set the table. He laughed, kissed me, and said, “Sorry, baby. Got carried away.”

Me, panting, and on the verge of dying: “Shut up. Hurry up. I need two different ups from you, right now, can you handle that?”

He bit his lip, before kissing me deeply. As he started thrusting, harder than before, deeper than before, I whimpered and dug my nails into his back until we both gave in, at the same second, together. He pulled out, threw the condom away, and collapsed next to me. We laced our fingers together. 

“I can’t walk,” he said.

“Actually, _I_ can’t walk,” I said.

He perked his head up. “Damn _right_.”

I shoved my hand in his face. “Fuck off. I’m hungry. Go put food on a plate for me.”

“You know why you’re so hungry?” he teased.

I pushed him off the bed, and he _kathunked_ against the floor. A second later, he hopped up, fully dressed, and chipper as ever, laughing. “Hey. Be down in ten, okay?”

“Mmhmm,” I mmhmmed. I listened to his feet pad down the stairs. Since I got here, I couldn’t stop smiling, but now even the sounds of his feet in the hall made me smile. I couldn’t believe how different he was. All the darkness I’d gotten used to feeling inside of him, the darkness I used to think was _part_ of him…was just fucking _gone_. I knew he wouldn’t hurt himself anymore. He wouldn’t have trouble sleeping anymore. He wouldn’t hide his drawings, or his books, or himself, anymore. 

I thought I loved him as much as I possibly could. But now I knew, I was only beginning to love him, because I was only beginning to know him. The real him. The Jean he should have always been.

And I couldn’t fucking wait. 

…

Later, after dinner, after I’d to the greatest extent of my abilities unpacked and put all my stuff in its’ places for the foreseeable future, Jean mentioned that he needed a cigarette. I said okay, but he stopped midway out the window. 

“Uh, you’re not coming with?”

I looked up from my English homework at him. “To…the windowsill?” 

Jean laughed, nervously, and ran his fingers through his air. I squinted at him, like he might be a Jean-clone, or something. He said, “No. Out on the roof.”

“Oh. Sure.” I stood up, wondering if now that we lived together we would do everything together. I didn’t have a problem with this, _right now_. But at the same time, I knew that when Jean and I fought, the only solution was to separate and cool off for a while. Which meant, I should have noticed that living together might be…idiotic. Potentially disastrous. 

I’d worry about that later. First he stepped out, and I followed him. We walked to a portion of his roof we’d never gone to.

“So, you know, you don’t have to see your parents,” he said. “And we can watch the sunset.”

“Being romantic, again, Jean,” I said, as I reached for his hand.

To my surprise, he didn’t swat me away, embarrassed. He didn’t deny that he was being romantic. He pulled my hand into his, and held his cigarette with his left hand, which he never did normally. We sat down, facing the trees and the orange, slowly sinking sun. A deer roamed into the yard, and we waited for it to leave before we spoke. 

Jean exhaled. “So, I’ve been doing some research.”

I kept my eye on the deer, as I turned those words over in my head. “You sure?”

He let out a tiny, shy laugh. Now he was just freaking me out. 

“During my study hall, I’ve been going to the library and looking up stuff about the military.”

My eyebrows shot up. A shudder ran down my spine right into my fingertips. My stomach flipped over. Was he backing out of our plans? “Yeah?” I squeaked. 

“And, I learned a couple things I thought you’d want to hear.”

I swallowed, audibly, and he turned his head to look at me. “Okay,” I choked.

He let out a long whiff of smoke. “The first probably matters more to your sister than you.” I cocked my head and squinted at the tree-line as he continued. “When she brought up smoking, I freaked out a little bit because I won’t be able to smoke in BMT.”

Oh my God, he _was_ backing out. Isn’t he? God? Is he? He better not be, please dear God!

“Turns out,” Jean continued, placing the filter back between his lips, and exhaling through his nose. God, he was so sexy when he did that. I wanted to fuck him again. On the roof. Would he still go to Basic with me, if I offered roof sex? “When people go to Basic Training, the training is actually so much more stressful than withdrawals are, that smokers straight up don’t go through withdrawals. By the time they’re out, they’re not addicted anymore.”

“Oh my fucking God. Seriously?” I asked, breathing again, because I didn’t think he was backing out anymore.

“Yup. Or at least, that’s what a bunch of different websites and like, forums and blogs and shit said about it online. It’s not, I mean, _everybody_ …but it’s pretty common.”

“Does that…bother you?” 

He snorted. “Hell no? I don’t even – it’s not like I want to smoke, okay? I only started because…I mean. I don’t really know why. I think I started because, well to be cool,” he paused to laugh at this. “When I was like twelve. And then I did it because I thought it helped me with stress. And then I did it to…you know,” he said, gesturing to the cigarette-butt-shaped scars on his arm. “By the time I was doing it for that, I was addicted and didn’t have a choice so…”

I wrapped my arm around Jean’s shoulder, because he sniffled and I could tell there was a lot on his mind in that moment. He sucked down the rest of the cigarette he held, and threw the filter in the gutter like he couldn’t stand the sight of it anymore.

“I’m a lot more concerned about the whole ‘BMT is more stressful than withdrawals’ thing,” he whispered, like this was a confession he was ashamed off. 

I leaned in to kiss him. “But you can handle it. Baby, you put up with your dad _your whole life_. It can’t be worse than that.”

He smiled, mostly to humor me, then continued. “I know. I know I can handle it. But I didn’t think I could handle being away from you.”

At this, I winced, and ground my teeth together. “It’s just eight weeks, Jean.”

“Basic Training is just eight weeks. What about being stationed at different bases, Eren? And deployments? You know that ninety percent of the jobs you could end up in deploy you, even if they aren’t dangerous jobs? Even if you’re a firefighter, like I know you want to be.”

I didn’t recall telling him I wanted to be a firefighter. He must have figured it out. He knew me so well. And normally that would make me smile, but this was bittersweet. 

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I honestly didn’t think of that.”

And truthfully, it made me waver. Only recently had I realized that the military was something I wanted to do. But even if being a firefighter for the military sounded like it was probably my dream job – I didn’t want it without Jean. I knew that already. 

But I wouldn’t give it up yet either. “We’ll just have to – I don’t know, but we’ll –”

“You didn’t let me finish,” he said, wrapping his arm around my waist. The sun had sunk so low it was a semi-circle now, and the sky bled from yellow all the way up to blue. It reminded me of some of Jean’s drawings. Normally, he liked drawing people most. But sometimes he would draw something in nature for me. And I loved those the most. 

“Then, what were you going to say?”

“There’s a way we can stay together, and still enlist.”

“How?” I asked, desperately. For some reason, I didn’t believe him. Already, I felt so hopeless.

“Well, for one, we enlist in the Air Force. Not any other branch.”

I shrugged. “I was already gonna.”

He smiled, and pulled me even closer. “I need you to look at me for this second part.”

I furrowed my eyebrows, but did as he said. His hazel eyes met mine. Fuck the sun. Fuck the sunset. Fuck everything but this. I loved him so Goddamn much. 

Jean placed one of his hands on my cheek, and leaned in really close, pressing his forehead against mine. “The second thing is.” He cut himself off. Swallowed. Cleared his throat. Let out a shaky exhale. “We get married.”

My head jerked back, and my eyes widened like an animal's would when corned. “We _what_?!”

He inhaled again, and looked away from me. “The Air Force has this policy, or whatever…that if a married couple is enlisted together, they’ll keep them together as much as possible. And – and gay people are allowed in the military now. Their marriages are recognized by the military. We’d go to BMT together. We’d get stationed at the same bases. And go on the same deployments, for the same length of time. And…And Eren.” He looked at me now. His eyes were bloodshot, and he gripped onto the roof shingles, digging his nails into them. “I love you too much to not be married to you.” 

I smiled at that, breathing more deeply than I had all day. He was right. Everything he was saying was crazy, and stupid, and so fucked up, but he was right. I loved him too much to not be married to him. And if we weren’t teenagers, and we’d been dating longer than a year at least, and we had already lived together for some time, I knew for a fact I would have already proposed to him. Like, you know, the way normal people get engaged.

But so fucking what if we weren’t normal? Since when did I give a shit about that? We were already gay, for one. No chance of normalcy there. We’d already been through more together than most couples. We certainly loved each other more than my parents loved each other. More than Jean’s parents had loved each other. And they both had completely normal relationships before getting married. 

Basically, there was no way in hell to know if something was going to work out. Being adults, and being together for a long time, and living in the same place for a long time were all safe bets…but what the hell. I knew what I believed in. I believed in fate, and soulmates, and God, and my gut, and Jean and every one of those things was telling me to go for it.

Well, maybe not _you_ God, but I didn’t ask you anyway. 

“God, Eren, you’re killing me,” Jean wheezed, and I laughed. 

I pulled him into me by the nape of his neck and kissed him long and hard. “You honestly thought that _I_ would say no to _you_?”

He let out a sigh of relief. “Not until you fucking _hesitated_.”

I pressed my lips together and shook my head. “You have to ask me though. Like, legit ask me. Not just…fucking hint at it, or suggest it, or whatever the fuck you’d call what you just did.”

Jean pulled me into him, and didn’t stop until I straddled him on his roof. He pressed his lips against the hallow of my throat, and tightened his arms around me. When he looked into my eyes, he smiled and looked at me like are-you-ready? I smiled back. “Eren Jaeger,” he said.

“Yes, Jean Kirstein?” I said, feigning ignorance, as if I had no idea what he was about say. 

Jean chuckled, but continued. “Will you marry me?”

Originally I was planning on smacking my hand against my chest, and dropping my jaw, and pretending to be caught off guard like I had a moment ago. But hearing the words actually _did_ catch me off guard, somehow, and my voice hitched and my eyes watered up and I couldn’t stop laughing at how ridiculous I was being. What, was I a thirty-five-year-old woman or something? Get it together, Jaeger. 

“Yes,” I choked and shoved my face into the crook of his neck. He laughed, and I cried and neither of us said anything until the night had risen and the streetlights had flicked on. 

Then, a thought occurred to him. “Eren?”

“Yeah?” I asked.

“So…how are we going to uh, get _married_ , exactly? If we’re doing it before Basic…then you’ll be nineteen and I’ll be eighteen and I don’t think my mom’s going to be able –”

“We stop in Vegas on our way to Texas,” I said and shrugged like _duh_. “Quick and cheap and without any of our family. Except my sister.”

He laughed. “Thank God.” I kissed him, but he pulled away to add one more thing. “Except, your sister and my mom.”

I nodded. “Except my sister and your mom.”

We kissed on the roof until we couldn’t find the energy, and even then we just laid there cuddling. Me with my head against his chest, and a cigarette in his other hand, just like the night we started dating. Our heartbeats were synced. I felt such thorough peace within me that I didn’t know how it was possible that I was alive. All my life I had accepted that pain was part of life and I’d get around to peace when I died. 

But I was alive, very alive, and had most my life left to live. I wondered what it would be like. What everything in our lives, from the moment we opened our eyes tomorrow, to the moment we closed them for the last time, would be like. I wanted to know now, and yet, I wanted it to forever be a mystery. I couldn’t wait for everything, and yet, I could never wish to get it over with. I was torn between two desires, the most incredible anticipation imaginable.

I sat up to look into Jean’s eyes. 

“What are you thinking?” I whispered.

He combed his fingers through my hair. “Wondering what you’ll look like with a buzz cut.”

I grinned at that. “I’ll look better than you.”

He sat up that, challenging my gaze, raising an eyebrow in a playfully skeptical way. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

I whispered against his lips. “Yup. That’s it.”

Just wait –

And see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't say enough how much I appreciate all of you who have been reading since the first chapter, OR how much I appreciate those of you who picked it up somewhere along the way. It means so much to me that you've invested time in these boys' lives, and find them worth reading about because I found them so worth writing about! 
> 
> Thank you so much, and I hope the ending was everything you dreamed, because it was certainly beyond anything the two of them ever dreamed. <333

**Author's Note:**

> If you're curious my tumblr URL is in-agony-and-ecstasy.tumblr.com, and my writing-only tumblr URL is the-only-one-in-color@tumblr.com.


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